Up came the dusk to the doors of the king's palace—a hurry of grey banners flowing into the empty ways where the sun had been. Upon this high dominion1 Night could not advance unheralded, and here the Twilight2 messengered her coming long after the dark lay thick on the lowland and on the toiling3 water.
St. George, leaning from Amory's window, looked down on the shadows rising in exquisite4 hesitation5, as if they came curling from the lighted censer of Med. There is no doubt at all, Olivia had said gravely, that the dusk is patterned, if only one could see it—figured in unearthly flowers, in wandering stars, in upper-air sprites, grey-winged, grey-bodied, so that sometimes glimpsing them one fancies them to be little living goblins. He smiled, remembering her words, and glanced over his shoulder down the long room where the other light was now beginning to creep about, first expressing, then embracing the chamber7 dusk. It seemed precisely8 the moment when something delicate should be caught passing from gloom to radiance, to be thankfully remembered. But only many-winged colours were visible, though he could hear a sound like little murmurous9 speech in the dusky roof where the air had a recurrent fashion of whispering knowingly.
Indeed, the air everywhere in the palace had a fashion of whispering knowingly, for it was a place of ghostly draughts10 and blasts creeping through chambers12 cleft13 by yawning courts and open corridors and topped by that skeleton dome14. And as St. George turned from the window he saw that the door leading into the hall, urged by some nimble gust15, imaginative or prying16, had swung ajar.
St. George mechanically crossed the room to close the door, noting how the pale light warmed the stones of that cave-like corridor. With his hand upon the latch17 his eyes fell on something crossing the corridor, like a shadow dissolving from gloom to gloom. Well beyond the open door, stealing from pillar to pillar in the dimness and moving with that swiftness and slyness which proclaim a covert18 purpose as effectually as would a bell, he saw old Malakh.
Now St. George was in felt-soled slippers19 and he was coatless, because in the adjoining room Jarvo, with a heated, helmet-like apparatus20, was attempting to press his blue serge coat. In that room too was Amory, catching21 glimpses of himself in a mirror of polished steel, but within reach, on the divan22 where Jarvo had just laid it, was Amory's coat; and St. George caught that up, slipped it on, and was off down the corridor after the old man, moving as swiftly and slyly as he. St. George had no great faith in him or in what he might know, but the old man puzzled him, and mystification is the smell of a pleasant powder.
The palace was very still. Presumably, Mrs. Hastings and Mr. Frothingham were already at chess in the drawing-room awaiting dinner. St. George heard a snatch of distant laughter, in quick little lilts like a song, and it occurred to him that its echo there was as if one were to pin a ruffle23 of lace to the grim stones. Some one answered the laugh, and he heard the murmurous touching24 of soft skirts entering the corridor as he dived down the ancient dark of one of the musty passages. There the silence was resumed. In the palace it was as though the stillness were some living sleeper25, waking with protests, thankful for the death of any echo.
No one was in the gallery. St. George, stepping softly, followed as near as he dared to that hurrying figure, flitting down the dark. A still narrower hallway connected the main portion of the palace with a shoulder of the south wing, and into this the old man turned and skirted familiarly the narrow sunken pool that ran the length of the floor, drawing the light to its glassy surface and revealing the shadows sent clustering to the indistinguishable roof.
Midway the gallery sprang a narrow stairway, let in the wall and once leading to the ancient armoury, but now disused and piled with rubbish. Old Malakh went up two steps of this old stairway, turned aside, and slipped away so swiftly that his amazed pursuer caught no more than an after-flutter of his dun-coloured garments. St. George, his softly-clad feet making no noise upon the stones, bounded forward and saw, through a triangular27 aperture28 in the stones, and set so low that a man must crouch29 upon the step to enter, a yawning place of darkness.
He might very well have been taking his life in his hands, for he could have no idea whether the aperture led to the imperial dungeons30 or to the imperial rain-water cistern31; but St. George instantly bent32 and slipped down into that darkness, thick with the dust of the flight of the old man. With the distinctly pleasurable sensation of being still alive he found himself standing33 upright upon an uneven34 floor of masonry35. He thrust out his arms and touched sides of mossy rock. Then just before him a pale flame flickered36. The old man had kindled37 a little taper38 that hardly did more than make shallow hollows in the darkness through which he moved.
It was easy to follow now, and St. George went breathlessly on past the rudely-hewn walls and giant pillars of that hidden way. He might have been lost with ease in any of the lower processes of the palace which they had that morning visited; but he could not be deceived about the chambers which he had once seen, and this subterranean39 course was new to him. Was it, he wondered, new to Olivia, and to Jarvo? Else why had it been omitted in that morning's search? And was this strange guide going on at random40, or did he know—something? A suspicion leaped to St. George's mind that made his heart beat. The king—might he be down here after all, and might this weird41 old man know where? His own consciousness became chiefly conjecture42, and every nerve was alert in the pursuit; not the less because he realized that if he were to lose this strange conductor who went on before, either in secure knowledge or in utter madness, he himself might wander for the rest of his life in that nether43 world.
Past grim latchless doors sealing, with appropriate gestures, their forgotten secrets, past outlying passages winding44 into the heart of the mountain, past niches45 filled with shapeless crumbling47 rubbish they hurried—the mad old man and his bewildered pursuer. Twice the way turned, gradually narrowing until two could hardly have passed there, and at last apparently48 terminated in a short flight of steps. Old Malakh mounted with difficulty and St. George, waiting, saw him standing before a blank stone wall. Immediately and without effort the old man's scanty49 strength served to displace one of the wall's huge stones which hung upon a secret pivot50 and rolled noiselessly within. He stepped through the aperture, and St. George sprang behind him, watched his moment to cross the threshold, crouched51 in the leaping shadow of the displaced stone and looked—looked with the undistinguishing amazement52 that a man feels in the panorama53 of his dreams.
The room was small and low and set with a circular bench, running about a central pillar. On the table was a confusion of things brilliantly phosphorescent, emitting soft light, and mingled54 with bulbs, coils and crucibles55 lying in a litter of egg-shells, feathers, ivory and paper. But it was not these that held St. George incredulous; it was the fire that glowed in their midst—a fire that leaped and trembled and blazed inextinguishable colour, smouldering, sparkling, tossing up a spray of strange light, lambent with those wizard hues56 of the pennons and streamers floating joyously57 from the dome of the Palace of the Litany—the fire from the subject hearts of a thousand jewels. There could be no doubting what he saw. There, flung on the table from the mouth of a carven casket and harbouring the captive light of ages gone, glittered what St. George knew would be the gems58 of the Hereditary59 Treasure of the kings of Yaque.
But for old Malakh to know where the jewels were—that was as amazing as was their discovery. St. George, breathing hard in his corner, watched the long, fine hands of the old man trembling among the delicate tubes and spindles, lingering lovingly among the stones, touching among the necklaces and coronals of the dead queens whose dust lay not far away. It was as if he were summoning and discarding something shining and imponderable, like words. The contents of the casket which all Yaque had mourned lay scattered60 in this secret place of which only this strange, mad creature, a chance pensioner61 at the palace, had knowledge.
Suddenly the memory of Balator's words smote62 St. George with new perception. "He walks the streets of Med," Balator had told him at the banquet, "saying 'Melek, Melek,' which is to say 'king,' and so he is seeking the king. But he is mad, and he weeps; and therefore they pretend to believe that he says, 'Malakh,' which is to say 'salt,' and they call him that, for his tears."
Could old Malakh possibly know something of the king? The hope returned to St. George insistently63, and he watched, spending his thought in new and extravagant64 conjecture, his mental vision blurring65 the details of that heaped-up, glistening66 confusion; and on the opposite side of the table the old man lifted and laid down that rainbow stuff of dreams, delighting in it, speaking softly above it. Had he been the king's friend, St. George was asking—but why did no one know anything of him? Or had he been an enemy who had done the king violence—but how was that possible, in his age and feebleness? Mystifying as the matter was, St. George exulted67 as much as he marveled; for it would be his, at all events, to place the jewels in Olivia's hands and clear her father's name; he longed to step out of the dark and confront the old man and seize the casket out of hand, and he would probably have done so and taken his chances at getting back to the upper world, had he not been chained to his corner by the irresistible68 hope that the old man knew something more—something about the king. And while he wondered, reflecting that at any cost he must prevent the replacing of the pivotal stone, he saw old Malakh take up his taper, turn away from the table, and open a door which the room's central pillar had cut from his view.
He was around the table in an instant. The open door revealed three stone steps which the old man was ascending69, one at a time. Following him cautiously St. George heard a door grate outward at the head of the stair, saw the taper move forward in darkness, and the next moment found himself standing in the room of the tombs of the kings of Yaque. And he saw that the panel which had swung inward to admit them was set low in the monolithic70 tomb of King Abibaal himself.
Old Malakh had crossed swiftly to the wall opposite the tomb, and stood before the vacant niche46 which was to be occupied, as Jarvo had announced, by "His Majesty71, King Otho, by the grace of God." There, setting aside his taper, the old man stretched his arms upward to the empty shelf and with a gesture of inconceivable weariness bowed his head upon them and stood silent, the leaping candle-light silvering his hair.
"Upon my soul," thought St George with finality, "he's murdered him. Old Malakh has murdered the king, and it's driven him crazy."
With that he did step out of the dark, and he laid his hand suddenly upon the old man's shoulder.
"Malakh," he said, "what have you done with the king?"
The old man lifted his head and turned toward St. George a face of singular calm. It was as if so many phantoms72 vexed73 his brain that a strange reality was of little consequence. But as his eyes met those of St. George a sudden dimness came over them, the lids fluttered and dropped, and his lips barely formed his words:
"The king," he said. "I did not leave the king. It was the king who somehow went away and left me here—"
He threw out his hands blindly, tottered74 and swayed from the wall; and St. George received him as he fell, measuring his length upon the stones before King Otho's future tomb.
St. George caught down the light and knelt beside him. Death seemed to have come "pressing within his face," and breathing hardly disquieted75 his breast. St. George fumbled76 at the old man's robe, and beneath his fingers the heart fluttered never so faintly. He loosened the cloth at the withered77 throat, passed his hand over the still forehead, and looked desperately78 about him.
The other inmates79 of the palace were, he reflected, about two good city blocks from him; and he doubted if he could ever find his unaided way back to them. Mechanically, though he knew that he carried no flask80, he felt conscientiously81 through his pockets—a habit of the boy in perplexity which never deserts the man in crises. In the inside pocket of the coat that he was wearing—Amory's coat—his fingers suddenly closed about something made of glass. He seized it and drew it forth82.
It was a little vase of rock-crystal, ornamented83 with gold medallions, covered with exquisite and precise engraving84 of great beauty and variety of design—gryphons, serpents, winged discs, men contending with lions. St. George stared at it uncomprehendingly. In the press of events of the last eight-and-forty hours Amory had quite forgotten to mention to him the prince's intended gift of wine, almost three thousand years old, sealed in Phœnicia.
St. George drew the stopper. In an instant an odour, spicy85, penetrating86, delicious, saluted87 him and gave life to the dead air of the room. For a moment he hesitated. He knew that the flask had not been among Amory's belongings88 and that he himself had never seen it before. But the odour was, he thought, unmistakable, and so powerful that already he felt as if the liquor were racing6 through his own veins90. He touched it to his lips; it was like a full draught11 of some marvelous elixir91. Sudden confidence sat upon St. George, and thanking his guiding stars for the fortunate chance, he unhesitatingly set the flask to the old man's lips.
There was a long-drawn, shuddering92 breath, a fluttering of the eyelids93, a movement of the limbs, and after that old Malakh lay quite still upon the stones. Once more St. George thrust his hand within the bosom94 of the loose robe, and the heart was beating rapidly and regularly and with amazing force. In a moment deep breaths succeeded one another, filling the breast of the unconscious man; but the eyelids did not unclose, and St. George took up the taper and bent to scan the quiet face.
St. George looked, and sank to his knees and looked again, holding the light now here, now there, and peering in growing bewilderment. What he saw he was wholly unable to define. It was as if a mask were slowly to dissolve and yet to lie upon the features which it had covered, revealing while it still made mock of concealing95. Colour was in the lips, colour was stealing into the changed face. The changed face—changed, St. George could not tell how; and the longer he looked, and though he rubbed his eyes and turned them toward the dark and then looked again, moving the taper, he could neither explain nor define what had happened.
He set the candle on the floor and sprang away from the quiet figure, searching the dark. The great silent place, with its shoulders of sarcophagi jutting96 from the gloom was black save for the little ring of pallid97 light about that prostrate98 form. St. George sent his hand to his forehead, and shook himself a bit, and straightened his shoulders with a smile.
"It must be the stuff you've tasted," he addressed himself solemnly. "Heaven knows what it was. It's the stuff you've tasted."
Though he had barely touched his lips to the rock-crystal vase St. George's blood was pounding through his veins, and a curious exhilaration filled him. He looked about at the rims99 and corners of the tombs caught by the light, and he laughed a little—though this was not in the least what he intended—because it passed through his mind that if King Abibaal and Queen Mitygen, for example, might be treated with the contents of the mysterious vase they would no doubt come forth, Abibaal with memories of the Queen of Sheba in his eyes, and Queen Mitygen with her casket of Alexander's letters. Then St. George went down on his knees again, and raised the old man's head until it rested upon his own breast, and he passed the candle before his face, his hand trembling so that the light flickered and leaped up.
This time there was no mistaking. The tissues of old Malakh's ashen100 face and throat and pallid hands were undergoing some subtle transfiguration. It was as if new blood had come encroaching in their veins. It was as if the muscles were become firm and full, as if the wrinkled skin had been made smooth, the lips grown fresh, as if—the word came to St. George as he stared, spell-stricken—as if youth had returned.
St. George slipped down upon the stones and sat motionless. There was a little blue, forked vein89 on the man's forehead, and upon this he fastened his eyes, mechanically following it downward and back. Lines had crossed it, and there had been a deep cleft between the eyes, but these had disappeared, leaving the brow almost smooth. The cheeks were now tinged101 with colour, and the throat, where he had pulled aside the robe, showed firm and white. Mechanically St. George passed his hand along the inert102 arm, and it was no more withered than his own—the arm of no greybeard, but of a man in the prime of life. What did it mean—what did it mean? St. George waited, the blood throbbing103 in his temples, a mist before his eyes. What did it mean?
The minutes dragged by and still the unconscious man did not stir or unclose his eyes. From time to time St. George pressed his hand to the heart, and found it beating on rhythmically104, powerfully. When he found himself sitting with averted105 head, as if he were afraid to look back at that changing face, a fear seized him that he had lost his reason and that what he imagined himself to see was a phase of madness. So he left the old man's side and sturdily tramped away into the huge dark of the room, resolutely106 explaining to himself that this was all very natural; the old man had been ill, improperly107 nourished, and the powerful stimulant108 of the wine had partly restored him. But even while he went over it St. George knew in his heart that what had happened was nothing that could be so explained, nothing that could be explained at all by anything within his ken26.
His footsteps echoed startlingly on the stones, and the chill breath of the place smote his face as he moved. He stumbled on a displaced tile and pitched forward upon a jagged corner of sarcophagus, and reeled as if at a blow from some arm of the darkness. The taper rays struck a length of wall before him, minting from the gloom a sheet of pale orchids109 clinging to the unclean rock. St. George remembered a green slope, spangled with crocuses and wild strawberries, coloured like the orchids but lying under free sky, in free air. It seemed only a trick of Chance that he was not now lying on that far slope, wherever it was, instead of facing these ghost blooms in this ghost place. Back there, where the light glimmered110 beside the tomb of King Abibaal, nobody could tell what awaited him. If the man could change like this, might he not take on some shape too hideous111 to bear in the silence? St. George stood still, suddenly clenching112 his hands, trying to reach out through the dark and to grasp—himself, the self that seemed slipping away from him. But was he mad already, he wondered angrily, and hurried back to the far flickering113 light, stumbling, panting, not daring to look at the figure on the floor, not daring not to look.
He resolutely caught up the candle and peered once more at the face. As steadily114 and swiftly as change in the aspect of the sky the face had gone on changing. St. George had followed to the chamber an old tottering115 man; the figure before him was a man of not more than fifty years.
St. George let fall the candle, which flickered down, upright in its socket116; and he turned away, his hand across his eyes. Since this was manifestly impossible he must be mad, something in the stuff that he had tasted had driven him mad. He felt strong as a lion, strong enough to lift that prostrate figure and to carry it through the winding passages into the midst of those above stairs, and to beg them in mercy to tell him how the man looked. What would she say? He wondered what Olivia would say. Dinner would be over and they would be in the drawing-room—Olivia and Amory and Antoinette Frothingham; already the white room and the lights and Antoinette's laughter seemed to him of another world, a world from which he had irrevocably passed. Yet there they were above, the same roof covering them, and they did not know that down here in this place of the dead he, St. George, was beyond all question going mad.
With a cry he pulled off Amory's coat, flung it over the unconscious man, and rushed out into the blackness of the corridor. He would not take the light—the man must not die alone there in the dark—and besides he had heard that the mad could see as well in the dark as in the light. Or was it the blind who could see in the dark? No doubt it was the blind. However, he could find his way, he thought triumphantly117, and ran on, dragging his hand along the slippery stones of the wall—he could find his way. Only he must call out, to tell them who it was that was lost. So he called himself by name, aloud and sternly, and after that he kept on quietly enough, serene118 in the conviction that he had regained119 his self-control, fighting to keep his mind from returning to the face that changed before his eyes, like the appearances in the puppet shows. But suddenly he became conscious that it was his own name that he went shouting through the passages; and that was openly absurd, he reasoned, since if he wanted to be found he must call some one else's name. But he must hurry—hurry—hurry; no one could tell what might be happening back there to that face that changed.
"Olivia!" he shouted, "Amory! Jarvo—oh, Jarvo! Rollo, you scoundrel—"
Whereat the memory that Rollo was somewhere on a yacht assailed120 him, and he pressed on, blindly and in silence, until glimmering121 before him he saw a light shining from an open door. Then he rushed forward and with a groan122 of relief threw himself into the room. Opposite the door loomed123 the grim sarcophagus of King Abibaal, and beside it on the floor lay the figure with the face that changed. He had gone a circle in those tortuous124 passages, and this was the room of the tombs of the kings.
He dragged himself across the chamber toward the still form. He must look again; no one could tell what might have happened. He pulled down the coat and looked. And there was surely nothing in the delicate, handsome, English-looking face upturned to his to give him new horror. It was only that he had come down here in the wake of a tottering old creature, and that here in his place lay a man who was not he. Which was manifestly impossible.
Mechanically St. George's hand went to the man's heart. It was beating regularly and powerfully, and deep breaths were coming from the full, healthily-coloured lips. For a moment St. George knelt there, his blood tingling125 and pricking126 in his veins and pulsing in his temples. Then he swayed and fell upon the stones.
When St. George opened his eyes it was ten o'clock of the following morning, though he felt no interest in that. There was before him a great rectangle of light. He lifted his head and saw that the light appeared to flow from the interior of the tomb of King Abibaal. The next moment Amory's cheery voice, pitched high in consternation127 and relief, made havoc128 among the echoes with a background of Jarvo's smooth thanksgiving for the return of adôn.
St. George, coatless, stiff from the hours on the mouldy stones, dragged himself up and turned his eyes in fear upon the figure beside him. It flashed hopefully through his mind that perhaps it had not changed, that perhaps he had dreamed it all, that perhaps ...
By his first glance that hope was dispelled129. From beneath Amory's coat on the floor an arm came forth, pushing the coat aside, and a man slenderly built, with a youthful, sensitive face and somewhat critically-drooping lids, sat up leisurely130 and looked about him in slow surprise, kindling131 to distinct amusement.
"Upon my soul," he said softly, "what an admission—what an admission! I can not have made such a night of it in years."
Upon which Jarvo dropped unhesitatingly to his knees.
"Melek! Melek!" he cried, prostrating132 himself again and again. "The King! The King! The gods have permitted the possible."
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1
dominion
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| n.统治，管辖，支配权；领土，版图 | |
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2
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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3
toiling
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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4
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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5
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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6
racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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7
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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8
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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murmurous
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| adj.低声的 | |
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10
draughts
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| n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
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11
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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12
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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13
cleft
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| n.裂缝；adj.裂开的 | |
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14
dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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15
gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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16
prying
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| adj.爱打听的v.打听，刺探（他人的私事）( pry的现在分词 )；撬开 | |
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latch
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| n.门闩，窗闩；弹簧锁 | |
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covert
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| adj.隐藏的；暗地里的 | |
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19
slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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apparatus
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| n.装置，器械；器具，设备 | |
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21
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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divan
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| n.长沙发；（波斯或其他东方诗人的）诗集 | |
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23
ruffle
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| v.弄皱，弄乱；激怒，扰乱；n.褶裥饰边 | |
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24
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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sleeper
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| n.睡眠者，卧车，卧铺 | |
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ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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triangular
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| adj.三角（形）的，三者间的 | |
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28
aperture
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| n.孔，隙，窄的缺口 | |
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29
crouch
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| v.蹲伏，蜷缩，低头弯腰；n.蹲伏 | |
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dungeons
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| n.地牢( dungeon的名词复数 ) | |
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cistern
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| n.贮水池 | |
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32
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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33
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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uneven
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| adj.不平坦的，不规则的，不均匀的 | |
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masonry
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| n.砖土建筑；砖石 | |
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36
flickered
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| （通常指灯光）闪烁，摇曳( flicker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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38
taper
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| n.小蜡烛，尖细，渐弱；adj.尖细的；v.逐渐变小 | |
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39
subterranean
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| adj.地下的，地表下的 | |
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40
random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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41
weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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42
conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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43
nether
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| adj.下部的，下面的；n.阴间；下层社会 | |
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44
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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45
niches
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| 壁龛( niche的名词复数 )； 合适的位置[工作等]； （产品的）商机； 生态位（一个生物所占据的生境的最小单位） | |
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46
niche
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| n.壁龛；合适的职务(环境、位置等) | |
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47
crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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48
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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49
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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50
pivot
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| v.在枢轴上转动；装枢轴，枢轴；adj.枢轴的 | |
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51
crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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52
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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53
panorama
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| n.全景，全景画，全景摄影，全景照片[装置] | |
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54
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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55
crucibles
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| n.坩埚，严酷的考验（ crucible的名词复数 ） | |
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56
hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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57
joyously
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| ad.快乐地, 高兴地 | |
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58
gems
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| growth； economy； management； and customer satisfaction 增长 | |
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59
hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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60
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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61
pensioner
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| n.领养老金的人 | |
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62
smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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63
insistently
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| ad.坚持地 | |
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64
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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65
blurring
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| n.模糊，斑点甚多，（图像的）混乱v.（使）变模糊( blur的现在分词 )；（使）难以区分 | |
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66
glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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67
exulted
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| 狂喜，欢跃( exult的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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68
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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69
ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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70
monolithic
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| adj.似独块巨石的；整体的 | |
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71
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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72
phantoms
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| n.鬼怪，幽灵( phantom的名词复数 ) | |
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73
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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74
tottered
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| v.走得或动得不稳( totter的过去式和过去分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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75
disquieted
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| v.使不安，使忧虑，使烦恼( disquiet的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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76
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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77
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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78
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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79
inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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80
flask
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| n.瓶，火药筒，砂箱 | |
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81
conscientiously
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| adv.凭良心地；认真地，负责尽职地；老老实实 | |
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82
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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83
ornamented
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| adj.花式字体的v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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84
engraving
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| n.版画；雕刻（作品）；雕刻艺术；镌版术v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的现在分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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85
spicy
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| adj.加香料的；辛辣的，有风味的 | |
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86
penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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87
saluted
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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88
belongings
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| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
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89
vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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90
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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91
elixir
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| n.长生不老药，万能药 | |
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92
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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93
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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94
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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95
concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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96
jutting
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| v.（使）突出( jut的现在分词 )；伸出；（从…）突出；高出 | |
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97
pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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98
prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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99
rims
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| n.（圆形物体的）边( rim的名词复数 )；缘；轮辋；轮圈 | |
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100
ashen
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| adj.灰的 | |
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101
tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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102
inert
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| adj.无活动能力的，惰性的；迟钝的 | |
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103
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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104
rhythmically
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| adv.有节奏地 | |
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105
averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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106
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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107
improperly
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| 不正确地，不适当地 | |
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108
stimulant
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| n.刺激物，兴奋剂 | |
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109
orchids
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| n.兰花( orchid的名词复数 ) | |
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110
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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111
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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112
clenching
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的现在分词 ) | |
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113
flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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114
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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115
tottering
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| adj.蹒跚的，动摇的v.走得或动得不稳( totter的现在分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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116
socket
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| n.窝，穴，孔，插座，插口 | |
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117
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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118
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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119
regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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120
assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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121
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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122
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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123
loomed
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| v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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124
tortuous
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| adj.弯弯曲曲的，蜿蜒的 | |
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125
tingling
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| v.有刺痛感( tingle的现在分词 ) | |
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126
pricking
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| 刺，刺痕，刺痛感 | |
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127
consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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128
havoc
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| n.大破坏，浩劫，大混乱，大杂乱 | |
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129
dispelled
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| v.驱散，赶跑( dispel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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130
leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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131
kindling
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| n. 点火, 可燃物 动词kindle的现在分词形式 | |
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132
prostrating
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| v.使俯伏，使拜倒( prostrate的现在分词 )；（指疾病、天气等）使某人无能为力 | |
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