Between the prison and the Nile no houses stood, and at this time the prisoners were allowed, so long as daylight lasted, to stumble in their chains down the half-mile of broken sloping earth to the Nile bank, so that they might draw water for their use and perform their ablutions. For the native or the negro, then, escape was not so difficult. For along that bank the dhows were moored3 and they were numerous; the river traffic, such as there was of it, had its harbour there, and the wide foreshore made a convenient market-place. Thus the open space between the river and the House of Stone was thronged4 and clamorous6 all day, captives rubbed elbows with their friends, concerted plans of escape, or then and there slipped into the thickest of the crowd and made their way to the first blacksmith, with whom the price of iron outweighed7 any risk he took. But even on their way to the blacksmith's shop, their fetters8 called for no notice in Omdurman. Slaves wore them as a daily habit, and hardly a street in all that long brown treeless squalid city was ever free from the clink of a man who walked in chains.
But for the European escape was another matter. There were not so many white prisoners but that each was a marked man. Besides relays of camels stationed through the desert, much money, long preparations, and above all, devoted10 natives who would risk their lives, were the first necessities for their evasion11. The camels might be procured12 and stationed, but it did not follow that their drivers would remain at the stations; the long preparations might be made and the whip of the gaoler overset them at the end by flogging the captive within an inch of his life, on a suspicion that he had money; the devoted servant might shrink at the last moment. Colonel Trench13 began to lose all hope. His friends were working for him, he knew. For at times the boy who brought his food into the prison would bid him be ready; at times, too, when at some parade of the Khalifa's troops he was shown in triumph as an emblem14 of the destiny of all the Turks, a man perhaps would jostle against his camel and whisper encouragements. But nothing ever came of the encouragements. He saw the sun rise daily beyond the bend of the river behind the tall palm trees of Khartum and burn across the sky, and the months dragged one after the other.
On an evening towards the end of August, in that year when Durrance came home blind from the Soudan, he sat in a corner of the enclosure watching the sun drop westwards towards the plain with an agony of anticipation15. For however intolerable the heat and burden of the day, it was as nothing compared with the horrors which each night renewed. The moment of twilight16 came and with it Idris es Saier, the great negro of the Gawaamah tribe, and his fellow-gaolers.
"Into the House of Stone!" he cried.
Praying and cursing, with the sound of the pitiless whips falling perpetually upon the backs of the hindmost, the prisoners jostled and struggled at the narrow entrance to the prison house. Already it was occupied by some thirty captives, lying upon the swamped mud floor or supported against the wall in the last extremities17 of weakness and disease. Two hundred more were driven in at night and penned there till morning. The room was perhaps thirty feet square, of which four feet were occupied by a solid pillar supporting the roof. There was no window in the building; a few small apertures19 near the roof made a pretence20 of giving air, and into this foul21 and pestilent hovel the prisoners were packed, screaming and fighting. The door was closed upon them, utter darkness replaced the twilight, so that a man could not distinguish even the outlines of the heads of the neighbours who wedged him in.
Colonel Trench fought like the rest. There was a corner near the door which he coveted23 at that moment with a greater fierceness of desire than he had ever felt in the days when he had been free. Once in that corner, he would have some shelter from the blows, the stamping feet, the bruises24 of his neighbour's shackles25; he would have, too, a support against which to lean his back during the ten interminable hours of suffocation26.
"If I were to fall! If I were to fall!"
That fear was always with him when he was driven in at night. It worked in him like a drug producing madness. For if a man once went down amid that yelling, struggling throng5, he never got up again—he was trampled27 out of shape. Trench had seen such victims dragged from the prison each morning; and he was a small man. Therefore he fought for his corner in a frenzy28 like a wild beast, kicking with his fetters, thrusting with his elbows, diving under this big man's arm, burrowing29 between two others, tearing at their clothes, using his nails, his fists, and even striking at heads with the chain which dangled30 from the iron ring about his neck. He reached the corner in the end, streaming with heat and gasping31 for breath; the rest of the night he would spend in holding it against all comers.
"If I were to fall!" he gasped32. "O God, if I were to fall!" and he shouted aloud to his neighbour—for in that clamour nothing less than a shout was audible—"Is it you, Ibrahim?" and a like shout answered him, "Yes, Effendi."
Trench felt some relief. Between Ibrahim, a great tall Arab of the Hadendoas, and Trench, a friendship born of their common necessities had sprung up. There were no prison rations9 at Omdurman; each captive was dependent upon his own money or the charity of his friends outside. To Trench from time to time there came money from his friends, brought secretly into the prison by a native who had come up from Assouan or Suakin; but there were long periods during which no help came to him, and he lived upon the charity of the Greeks who had sworn conversion33 to the Mahdist faith, or starved with such patience as he could. There were times, too, when Ibrahim had no friend to send him his meal into the prison. And thus each man helped the other in his need. They stood side by side against the wall at night.
"Yes, Effendi, I am here," and groping with his hand in the black darkness, he steadied Trench against the wall.
A fight of even more than common violence was raging in an extreme corner of the prison, and so closely packed were the prisoners that with each advance of one combatant and retreat of the other, the whole jostled crowd swayed in a sort of rhythm, from end to end, from side to side. But they swayed, fighting to keep their feet, fighting even with their teeth, and above the din18 and noise of their hard breathing, the clank of their chains, and their imprecations, there rose now and then a wild sobbing34 cry for mercy, or an inhuman35 shriek36, stifled37 as soon as uttered, which showed that a man had gone down beneath the stamping feet. Missiles, too, were flung across the prison, even to the foul earth gathered from the floor, and since none knew from what quarter they were flung, heads were battered38 against heads in the effort to avoid them. And all these things happened in the blackest darkness.
For two hours Trench stood in that black prison ringing with noise, rank with heat, and there were eight hours to follow before the door would be opened and he could stumble into the clean air and fall asleep in the zareeba. He stood upon tiptoe that he might lift his head above his fellows, but even so he could barely breathe, and the air he breathed was moist and sour. His throat was parched39, his tongue was swollen40 in his mouth and stringy like a dried fig22. It seemed to him that the imagination of God could devise no worse hell than the House of Stone on an August night in Omdurman. It could add fire, he thought, but only fire.
"If I were to fall!" he cried, and as he spoke41 his hell was made perfect, for the door was opened. Idris es Saier appeared in the opening.
"Make room," he cried, "make room," and he threw fire among the prisoners to drive them from the door. Lighted tufts of dried grass blazed in the darkness and fell upon the bodies of the prisoners. The captives were so crowded they could not avoid the missiles; in places, even, they could not lift their hands to dislodge them from their shoulders or their heads.
"Make room," cried Idris. The whips of his fellow-gaolers enforced his command, the lashes42 fell upon all within reach, and a little space was cleared within the door. Into that space a man was flung and the door closed again.
Trench was standing43 close to the door; in the dim twilight which came through the doorway44 he had caught a glimpse of the new prisoner, a man heavily ironed, slight of figure, and bent45 with suffering.
"He will fall," he said, "he will fall to-night. God! if I were to!" and suddenly the crowd swayed against him, and the curses rose louder and shriller than before.
The new prisoner was the cause. He clung to the door with his face against the panels, through the chinks of which actual air might come. Those behind plucked him from his vantage, jostled him, pressed him backwards47 that they might take his place. He was driven as a wedge is driven by a hammer, between this prisoner and that, until at last he was flung against Colonel Trench.
The ordinary instincts of kindness could not live in the nightmare of that prison house. In the daytime, outside, the prisoners were often drawn48 together by their bond of a common misery49; the faithful as often as not helped the infidel. But to fight for life during the hours of darkness without pity or cessation was the one creed50 and practice of the House of Stone. Colonel Trench was like the rest. The need to live, if only long enough to drink one drop of water in the morning and draw one clean mouthful of fresh air, was more than uppermost in his mind. It was the only thought he had.
"Back!" he cried violently, "back, or I strike!"—and, as he wrestled51 to lift his arm above his head that he might strike the better, he heard the man who had been flung against him incoherently babbling52 English.
"Don't fall," cried Trench, and he caught his fellow-captive by the arm. "Ibrahim, help! God, if he were to fall!" and while the crowd swayed again and the shrill46 cries and curses rose again, deafening53 the ears, piercing the brain, Trench supported his companion, and bending down his head caught again after so many months the accent of his own tongue. And the sound of it civilised him like the friendship of a woman.
He could not hear what was said; the din was too loud. But he caught, as it were, shadows of words which had once been familiar to him, which had been spoken to him, which he had spoken to others—as a matter of course. In the House of Stone they sounded most wonderful. They had a magic, too. Meadows of grass, cool skies, and limpid54 rivers rose in grey quiet pictures before his mind. For a moment he was insensible to his parched throat, to the stench of that prison house, to the oppressive blackness. But he felt the man whom he supported totter55 and slip, and again he cried to Ibrahim:—
"If he were to fall!"
Ibrahim helped as only he could. Together they fought and wrestled until those about them yielded, crying:—
"Shaitan! They are mad!"
They cleared a space in that corner and, setting the Englishman down upon the ground, they stood in front of him lest he should be trampled. And behind him upon the ground Trench heard every now and then in a lull56 of the noise the babble57 of English.
"He will die before morning," he cried to Ibrahim, "he is in a fever!"
"Sit beside him," said the Hadendoa. "I can keep them back."
Trench stooped and squatted58 in the corner, Ibrahim set his legs well apart and guarded Trench and his new friend.
Bending his head, Trench could now hear the words. They were the words of a man in delirium59, spoken in a voice of great pleading. He was telling some tale of the sea, it seemed.
"I saw the riding lights of the yachts—and the reflections shortening and lengthening60 as the water rippled—there was a band, too, as we passed the pier-head. What was it playing? Not the overture—and I don't think that I remember any other tune61...." And he laughed with a crazy chuckle62. "I was always pretty bad at appreciating music, wasn't I? except when you played," and again he came back to the sea. "There was the line of hills upon the right as the boat steamed out of the bay—you remember there were woods on the hillside—perhaps you have forgotten. Then came Bray63, a little fairyland of lights close down by the water at the point of the ridge64 ... you remember Bray, we lunched there once or twice, just you and I, before everything was settled ... it seemed strange to be steaming out of Dublin Bay and leaving you a long way off to the north among the hills ... strange and somehow not quite right ... for that was the word you used when the morning came behind the blinds—it is not right that one should suffer so much pain ... the engines didn't stop, though, they just kept throbbing65 and revolving66 and clanking as though nothing had happened whatever ... one felt a little angry about that ... the fairyland was already only a sort of golden blot67 behind ... and then nothing but sea and the salt wind ... and the things to be done."
The man in his delirium suddenly lifted himself upon an elbow, and with the other hand fumbled68 in his breast as though he searched for something. "Yes, the things to be done," he repeated in a mumbling69 voice, and he sank to unintelligible70 whisperings, with his head fallen upon his breast.
Trench put an arm about him and raised him up. But he could do nothing more, and even to him, crouched71 as he was close to the ground, the noisome heat was almost beyond endurance. In front, the din of shrill voices, the screams for pity, the swaying and struggling, went on in that appalling72 darkness. In one corner there were men singing in a mad frenzy, in another a few danced in their fetters, or rather tried to dance; in front of Trench Ibrahim maintained his guard; and beside Trench there lay in the House of Stone, in the town beyond the world, a man who one night had sailed out of Dublin Bay, past the riding lanterns of the yachts, and had seen Bray, that fairyland of lights, dwindle73 to a golden blot. To think of the sea and the salt wind, the sparkle of light as the water split at the ship's bows, the illuminated74 deck, perhaps the sound of a bell telling the hour, and the cool dim night about and above, so wrought75 upon Trench that, practical unimaginative creature as he was, for very yearning76 he could have wept. But the stranger at his side began to speak again.
"It is funny that those three faces were always the same ... the man in the tent with the lancet in his hand, and the man in the back room off Piccadilly ... and mine. Funny and not quite right. No, I don't think that was quite right either. They get quite big, too, just when you are going to sleep in the dark—quite big, and they come very close to you and won't go away ... they rather frighten one...." And he suddenly clung to Trench with a close, nervous grip, like a boy in an extremity77 of fear. And it was in the tone of reassurance78 that a man might use to a boy that Trench replied, "It's all right, old man, it's all right."
But Trench's companion was already relieved of his fear. He had come out of his boyhood, and was rehearsing some interview which was to take place in the future.
"Will you take it back?" he asked, with a great deal of hesitation79 and timidity. "Really? The others have, all except the man who died at Tamai. And you will too!" He spoke as though he could hardly believe some piece of great good fortune which had befallen him. Then his voice changed to that of a man belittling80 his misfortunes. "Oh, it hasn't been the best of times, of course. But then one didn't expect the best of times. And at the worst, one had always the afterwards to look forward to ... supposing one didn't run.... I'm not sure that when the whole thing's balanced, it won't come out that you have really had the worst time. I know you ... it would hurt you through and through, pride and heart and everything, and for a long time just as much as it hurt that morning when the daylight came through the blinds. And you couldn't do anything! And you hadn't the afterwards to help you—you weren't looking forward to it all the time as I was ... it was all over and done with for you ..." and he lapsed81 again into mutterings.
Colonel Trench's delight in the sound of his native tongue had now given place to a great curiosity as to the man who spoke and what he said. Trench had described himself a long while ago as he stood opposite the cab-stand in the southwest corner of St. James's Square: "I am an inquisitive82, methodical person," he had said, and he had not described himself amiss. Here was a life history, it seemed, being unfolded to his ears, and not the happiest of histories, perhaps, indeed, with something of tragedy at the heart of it. Trench began to speculate upon the meaning of that word "afterwards," which came and went among the words like the motif83 in a piece of music and very likely was the life motif of the man who spoke them.
In the prison the heat became stifling84, the darkness more oppressive, but the cries and shouts were dying down; their volume was less great, their intonation85 less shrill; stupor86 and fatigue87 and exhaustion88 were having their effect. Trench bent his head again to his companion and now heard more clearly.
"I saw your light that morning ... you put it out suddenly ... did you hear my step on the gravel89?... I thought you did, it hurt rather," and then he broke out into an emphatic90 protest. "No, no, I had no idea that you would wait. I had no wish that you should. Afterwards, perhaps, I thought, but nothing more, upon my word. Sutch was quite wrong.... Of course there was always the chance that one might come to grief oneself—get killed, you know, or fall ill and die—before one asked you to take your feather back; and then there wouldn't even have been a chance of the afterwards. But that is the risk one had to take."
The allusion91 was not direct enough for Colonel Trench's comprehension. He heard the word "feather," but he could not connect it as yet with any action of his own. He was more curious than ever about that "afterwards"; he began to have a glimmering92 of its meaning, and he was struck with wonderment at the thought of how many men there were going about the world with a calm and commonplace demeanour beneath which were hidden quaint93 fancies and poetic94 beliefs, never to be so much as suspected, until illness deprived the brain of its control.
"No, one of the reasons why I never said anything that night to you about what I intended was, I think, that I did not wish you to wait or have any suspicion of what I was going to attempt." And then expostulation ceased, and he began to speak in a tone of interest. "Do you know, it has only occurred to me since I came to the Soudan, but I believe that Durrance cared."
The name came with something of a shock upon Trench's ears. This man knew Durrance! He was not merely a stranger of Trench's blood, but he knew Durrance even as Trench knew him. There was a link between them, they had a friend in common. He knew Durrance, had fought in the same square with him, perhaps, at Tokar, or Tamai, or Tamanieb, just as Trench had done! And so Trench's curiosity as to the life history in its turn gave place to a curiosity as to the identity of the man. He tried to see, knowing that in that black and noisome hovel sight was impossible. He might hear, though, enough to be assured. For if the stranger knew Durrance, it might be that he knew Trench as well. Trench listened; the sound of the voice, high pitched and rambling96, told him nothing. He waited for the words, and the words came.
"Durrance stood at the window, after I had told them about you, Ethne," and Trench repeated the name to himself. It was to a woman, then, that his new-found compatriot, this friend of Durrance, in his delirium imagined himself to be speaking—a woman named Ethne. Trench could recall no such name; but the voice in the dark went on.
"All the time when I was proposing to send in my papers, after the telegram had come, he stood at the window of my rooms with his back to me, looking out across the park. I fancied he blamed me. But I think now he was making up his mind to lose you.... I wonder."
Trench uttered so startled an exclamation97 that Ibrahim turned round.
"Is he dead?"
"No, he lives, he lives."
It was impossible, Trench argued. He remembered quite clearly Durrance standing by a window with his back to the room. He remembered a telegram coming which took a long while in the reading—which diffused98 among all except Durrance an inexplicable99 suspense100. He remembered, too, a man who spoke of his betrothal101 and of sending in his papers. But surely this could not be the man. Was the woman's name Ethne? A woman of Donegal—yes; and this man had spoken of sailing out of Dublin Bay—he had spoken, too, of a feather.
"Good God!" whispered Trench. "Was the name Ethne? Was it? Was it?"
But for a while he received no answer. He heard only talk of a mud-walled city, and an intolerable sun burning upon a wide round of desert, and a man who lay there all the day with his linen102 robe drawn over his head, and slowly drew one face towards him across three thousand miles, until at sunset it was near, and he took courage and went down into the gate. And after that, four words stabbed Trench.
"Three little white feathers," were the words. Trench leaned back against the wall. It was he who had devised that message. "Three little white feathers," the voice repeated. "This afternoon we were under the elms down by the Lennon River—do you remember, Harry103?—just you and I. And then came three little white feathers; and the world's at an end."
Trench had no longer any doubts. The man was quoting words, and words, no doubt, spoken by this girl Ethne on the night when the three feathers came. "Harry," she had said. "Do you remember, Harry?" Trench was certain.
"Feversham!" he cried. "Feversham!" And he shook the man whom he held in his arms and called to him again. "Under the elms by the Lennon River—" Visions of green shade touched with gold, and of the sunlight flickering104 between the leaves, caught at Trench and drew him like a mirage105 in that desert of which Feversham had spoken. Feversham had been under the elms of the Lennon River on that afternoon before the feathers came, and he was in the House of Stone at Omdurman. But why? Trench asked himself the question and was not spared the answer.
"Willoughby took his feather back"—and upon that Feversham broke off. His voice rambled106. He seemed to be running somewhere amid sandhills which continually shifted and danced about him as he ran, so that he could not tell which way he went. He was in the last stage of fatigue, too, so that his voice in his delirium became querulous and weak. "Abou Fatma!" he cried, and the cry was the cry of a man whose throat is parched, and whose limbs fail beneath him. "Abou Fatma! Abou Fatma!" He stumbled as he ran, picked himself up, ran and stumbled again; and about him the deep soft sand piled itself into pyramids, built itself into long slopes and ridges107, and levelled itself flat with an extraordinary and a malicious108 rapidity. "Abou Fatma!" cried Feversham, and he began to argue in a weak obstinate109 voice. "I know the wells are here—close by—within half a mile. I know they are—I know they are."
The clue to that speech Trench had not got. He knew nothing of Feversham's adventure at Berber; he could not tell that the wells were the Wells of Obak, or that Feversham, tired with the hurry of his travelling, and after a long day's march without water, had lost his way among the shifting sandhills. But he did know that Willoughby had taken back his feather, and he made a guess as to the motive110 which had brought Feversham now to the House of Stone. Even on that point, however, he was not to remain in doubt; for in a while he heard his own name upon Feversham's lips.
Remorse111 seized upon Colonel Trench. The sending of the feathers had been his invention and his alone. He could not thrust the responsibility of his invention upon either Willoughby or Castleton; it was just his doing. He had thought it rather a shrewd and clever stroke, he remembered at the time—a vengeance112 eminently113 just. Eminently just, no doubt, it was, but he had not thought of the woman. He had not imagined that she might be present when the feathers came. He had indeed almost forgotten the episode, he had never speculated upon the consequences, and now they rose up and smote114 the smiter115.
And his remorse was to grow. For the night was not nearly at its end. All through the dark slow hours he supported Feversham and heard him talk. Now Feversham was lurking116 in the bazaar117 at Suakin and during the siege.
"During the siege," thought Trench. "While we were there, then, he was herding118 with the camel-drivers in the bazaar learning their tongues, watching for his chance. Three years of it!"
At another moment Feversham was slinking up the Nile to Wadi Halfa with a zither, in the company of some itinerant119 musicians, hiding from any who might remember him and accuse him with his name. Trench heard of a man slipping out from Wadi Halfa, crossing the Nile and wandering with the assumed manner of a lunatic southwards, starving and waterless, until one day he was snapped up by a Mahdist caravan120 and dragged to Dongola as a spy. And at Dongola things had happened of which the mere95 mention made Trench shake. He heard of leather cords which had been bound about the prisoner's wrists, and upon which water had been poured until the cords swelled121 and the wrists burst, but this was among the minor122 brutalities. Trench waited for the morning as he listened, wondering whether indeed it would ever come.
He heard the bolts dragged back at the last; he saw the door open and the good daylight. He stood up and with Ibrahim's help protected this new comrade until the eager rush was past. Then he supported him out into the zareeba. Worn, wasted in body and face, with a rough beard straggled upon his chin, and his eyes all sunk and very bright, it was still Harry Feversham. Trench laid him down in a corner of the zareeba where there would be shade; and in a few hours shade would be needed. Then with the rest he scrambled123 to the Nile for water and brought it back. As he poured it down Feversham's throat, Feversham seemed for a moment to recognise him. But it was only for a moment, and the incoherent tale of his adventures began again. Thus, after five years, and for the first time since Trench had dined as Feversham's guest in the high rooms overlooking St. James's Park, the two men met in the House of Stone.
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noisome
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| adj.有害的，可厌的 | |
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stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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moored
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| adj. 系泊的 动词moor的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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clamorous
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| adj.吵闹的，喧哗的 | |
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outweighed
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| v.在重量上超过( outweigh的过去式和过去分词 )；在重要性或价值方面超过 | |
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fetters
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| n.脚镣( fetter的名词复数 )；束缚v.给…上脚镣，束缚( fetter的第三人称单数 ) | |
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rations
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| 定量( ration的名词复数 )； 配给量； 正常量； 合理的量 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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evasion
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| n.逃避，偷漏(税) | |
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procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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trench
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| n./v.(挖)沟，(挖)战壕 | |
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emblem
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| n.象征，标志；徽章 | |
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anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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extremities
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din
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| n.喧闹声，嘈杂声 | |
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apertures
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| n.孔( aperture的名词复数 )；隙缝；（照相机的）光圈；孔径 | |
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pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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fig
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coveted
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| adj.令人垂涎的；垂涎的，梦寐以求的v.贪求，觊觎(covet的过去分词)；垂涎；贪图 | |
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bruises
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shackles
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| 手铐( shackle的名词复数 )； 脚镣； 束缚； 羁绊 | |
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suffocation
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| n.窒息 | |
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trampled
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| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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28
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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burrowing
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| v.挖掘（洞穴），挖洞( burrow的现在分词 )；翻寻 | |
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dangled
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| 悬吊着( dangle的过去式和过去分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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33
conversion
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| n.转化，转换，转变 | |
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34
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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35
inhuman
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| adj.残忍的，不人道的，无人性的 | |
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36
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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37
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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38
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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39
parched
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| adj.焦干的；极渴的；v.（使）焦干 | |
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swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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41
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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42
lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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43
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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44
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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45
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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46
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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47
backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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48
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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49
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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50
creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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51
wrestled
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| v.（与某人）搏斗( wrestle的过去式和过去分词 )；扭成一团；扭打；（与…）摔跤 | |
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52
babbling
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| n.胡说，婴儿发出的咿哑声adj.胡说的v.喋喋不休( babble的现在分词 )；作潺潺声（如流水）；含糊不清地说话；泄漏秘密 | |
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53
deafening
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| adj. 振耳欲聋的, 极喧闹的 动词deafen的现在分词形式 | |
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54
limpid
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| adj.清澈的，透明的 | |
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55
totter
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| v.蹒跚， 摇摇欲坠；n.蹒跚的步子 | |
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56
lull
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| v.使安静，使入睡，缓和，哄骗；n.暂停，间歇 | |
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babble
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| v.含糊不清地说，胡言乱语地说，儿语 | |
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58
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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59
delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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60
lengthening
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的现在分词 )； 加长 | |
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61
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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62
chuckle
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| vi.／n.轻声笑，咯咯笑 | |
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63
bray
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| n.驴叫声, 喇叭声；v.驴叫 | |
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64
ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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revolving
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| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
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67
blot
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| vt.弄脏（用吸墨纸）吸干；n.污点，污渍 | |
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68
fumbled
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| （笨拙地）摸索或处理（某事物）( fumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 乱摸，笨拙地弄； 使落下 | |
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69
mumbling
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的现在分词 ) | |
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70
unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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71
crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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72
appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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73
dwindle
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| v.逐渐变小（或减少） | |
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74
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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75
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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76
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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77
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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78
reassurance
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| n.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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79
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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80
belittling
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| 使显得微小，轻视，贬低( belittle的现在分词 ) | |
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81
lapsed
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| adj.流失的，堕落的v.退步( lapse的过去式和过去分词 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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82
inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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83
motif
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| n.(图案的)基本花纹，(衣服的)花边；主题 | |
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84
stifling
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| a.令人窒息的 | |
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85
intonation
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| n.语调，声调；发声 | |
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86
stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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87
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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88
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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89
gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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90
emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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91
allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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92
glimmering
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| n.微光，隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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93
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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94
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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95
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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96
rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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97
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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98
diffused
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| 散布的，普及的，扩散的 | |
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99
inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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100
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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101
betrothal
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| n. 婚约, 订婚 | |
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102
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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103
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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104
flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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105
mirage
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| n.海市蜃楼，幻景 | |
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106
rambled
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的过去式和过去分词 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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107
ridges
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| n.脊( ridge的名词复数 )；山脊；脊状突起；大气层的)高压脊 | |
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108
malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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109
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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110
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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111
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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112
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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113
eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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114
smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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115
smiter
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| 打击者 | |
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116
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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117
bazaar
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| n.集市，商店集中区 | |
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118
herding
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| 中畜群 | |
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119
itinerant
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| adj.巡回的；流动的 | |
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120
caravan
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| n.大蓬车；活动房屋 | |
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121
swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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122
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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123
scrambled
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的过去式和过去分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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