The King had come and had gone. Tilford Manor1 house stood once more dark and silent, but joy and contentment reigned2 within its walls. In one night every trouble had fallen away like some dark curtain which had shut out the sun. A princely sum of money had come from the King's treasurer3, given in such fashion that there could be no refusal. With a bag of gold pieces at his saddle-bow Nigel rode once more into Guildford, and not a beggar on the way who had not cause to bless his name.
There he had gone first to the goldsmith and had bought back cup and salver and bracelet4, mourning with the merchant over the evil chance that gold and gold-work had for certain reasons which only those in the trade could fully5 understand gone up in value during the last week, so that already fifty gold pieces had to be paid more than the price which Nigel had received. In vain the faithful Aylward fretted6 and fumed7 and muttered a prayer that the day would come when he might feather a shaft8 in the merchant's portly paunch. The money had to be paid.
Thence Nigel hurried to Wat the armorer's and there he bought that very suit for which he had yearned9 so short a time before. Then and there he tried it on in the booth, Wat and his boy walking round him with spanner and wrench10, fixing bolts and twisting rivets11.
“How is that, my fair sir?” cried the armorer as he drew the bassinet over the head and fastened it to the camail which extended to the shoulders. “I swear by Tubal Cain that it fits you as the shell fits the crab12! A finer suit never came from Italy or Spain.”
Nigel stood in front of a burnished13 shield which served as a mirror, and he turned this way and that, preening14 himself like a little shining bird. His smooth breastplate, his wondrous15 joints16 with their deft17 protection by the disks at knee and elbow and shoulder, the beautifully flexible gauntlets and sollerets, the shirt of mail and the close-fitting greave-plates were all things of joy and of beauty in his eyes. He sprang about the shop to show his lightness, and then running out he placed his hand on the pommel and vaulted18 into Pommers' saddle, while Wat and his boy applauded in the doorway19.
Then springing off and running into the shop again he clanked down upon his knees before the image of the Virgin20 upon the smithy wall. There from his heart he prayed that no shadow or stain should come upon his soul or his honor whilst these arms incased his body, and that he might be strengthened to use them for noble and godly ends. A strange turn this to a religion of peace, and yet for many a century the sword and the faith had upheld each other and in a darkened world the best ideal of the soldier had turned in some dim groping fashion toward the light. “Benedictus dominus deus meus qui docet manus meas ad Praelium et digitos meos ad bellum!” There spoke21 the soul of the knightly22 soldier.
So the armor was trussed upon the armorer's mule24 and went back with them to Tilford, where Nigel put it on once more for the pleasure of the Lady Ermyntrude, who clapped her skinny hands and shed tears of mingled25 pain and joy—pain that she should lose him, joy that he should go so bravely to the wars. As to her own future, it had been made easy for her, since it was arranged that a steward26 should look to the Tilford estate whilst she had at her disposal a suite27 of rooms in royal Windsor, where with other venerable dames28 of her own age and standing29 she could spend the twilight30 of her days discussing long-forgotten scandals and whispering sad things about the grandfathers and the grandmothers of the young courtiers all around them. There Nigel might leave her with an easy mind when he turned his face to France.
But there was one more visit to be paid and one more farewell to be spoken ere Nigel could leave the moorlands where he had dwelled so long. That evening he donned his brightest tunic31, dark purple velvet32 of Genoa, with trimming of miniver, his hat with the snow-white feather curling round the front, and his belt of embossed silver round his loins. Mounted on lordly Pommers, with his hawk33 upon wrist and his sword by his side, never did fairer young gallant34 or one more modest in mind set forth35 upon such an errand. It was but the old Knight23 of Duplin to whom he would say farewell; but the Knight of Duplin had two daughters, Edith and Mary, and Edith was the fairest maid in all the heather-country.
Sir John Buttesthorn, the Knight of Duplin, was so called because he had been present at that strange battle, some eighteen years before, when the full power of Scotland had been for a moment beaten to the ground by a handful of adventurers and mercenaries, marching under the banner of no nation, but fighting in their own private quarrel. Their exploit fills no pages of history, for it is to the interest of no nation to record it, and yet the rumor36 and fame of the great fight bulked large in those times, for it was on that day when the flower of Scotland was left dead upon the field, that the world first understood that a new force had arisen in war, and that the English archer37, with his robust38 courage and his skill with the weapon which he had wielded39 from his boyhood, was a power with which even the mailed chivalry40 of Europe had seriously to reckon.
Sir John after his return from Scotland had become the King's own head huntsman, famous through all England for his knowledge of venery, until at last, getting overheavy for his horses, he had settled in modest comfort into the old house of Cosford upon the eastern slope of the Hindhead hill. Here, as his face grew redder and his beard more white, he spent the evening of his days, amid hawks41 and hounds, a flagon of spiced wine ever at his elbow, and his swollen42 foot perched upon a stool before him. There it was that many an old comrade broke his journey as he passed down the rude road which led from London to Portsmouth, and thither43 also came the young gallants of the country to hear the stout44 knight's tales of old wars, or to learn, from him that lore45 of the forest and the chase which none could teach so well as he.
But sooth to say, whatever the old knight might think, it was not merely his old tales and older wine which drew the young men to Cosford, but rather the fair face of his younger daughter, or the strong soul and wise counsel of the elder. Never had two more different branches sprung from the same trunk. Both were tall and of a queenly graceful46 figure. But there all resemblance began and ended.
Edith was yellow as the ripe corn, blue-eyed, winning, mischievous47, with a chattering48 tongue, a merry laugh, and a smile which a dozen of young gallants, Nigel of Tilford at their head, could share equally amongst them. Like a young kitten she played with all things that she found in life, and some there were who thought that already the claws could be felt amid the patting of her velvet touch.
Mary was dark as night, grave-featured, plain-visaged, with steady brown eyes looking bravely at the world from under a strong black arch of brows. None could call her beautiful, and when her fair sister cast her arm round her and placed her cheek against hers, as was her habit when company was there, the fairness of the one and the plainness of the other leaped visibly to the eyes of all, each the clearer for that hard contrast. And yet, here and there, there was one who, looking at her strange, strong face, and at the passing gleams far down in her dark eyes, felt that this silent woman with her proud bearing and her queenly grace had in her something of strength, of reserve and of mystery which was more to them than all the dainty glitter of her sister.
Such were the ladies of Cosford toward whom Nigel Loring rode that night with doublet of Genoan velvet and the new white feather in his cap.
He had ridden over Thursley Ridge49 past that old stone where in days gone by at the place of Thor the wild Saxons worshiped their war-god. Nigel looked at it with a wary50 eye and spurred Pommers onward51 as he passed it, for still it was said that wild fires danced round it on the moonless nights, and they who had ears for such things could hear the scream and sob52 of those whose lives had been ripped from them that the fiend might be honored. Thor's stone, Thor's jumps, Thor's punch-bowl—the whole country-side was one grim monument to the God of Battles, though the pious53 monks54 had changed his uncouth55 name for that of the Devil his father, so that it was the Devil's jumps and the Devil's punch-bowl of which they spoke. Nigel glanced back at the old gray boulder56, and he felt for an instant a shudder57 pass through his stout heart. Was it the chill of the evening air, or was it that some inner voice had whispered to him of the day when he also might lie bound on such a rock and have such a blood-stained pagan crew howling around him.
An instant later the rock and his vague fear and all things else had passed from his mind, for there, down the yellow sandy path, the setting sun gleaming on her golden hair, her lithe58 figure bending and swaying with every heave of the cantering horse, was none other than the same fair Edith, whose face had come so often betwixt him and his sleep. His blood rushed hot to his face at the sight, for fearless of all else, his spirit was attracted and yet daunted59 by the delicate mystery of woman. To his pure and knightly soul not Edith alone, but every woman, sat high and aloof60, enthroned and exalted61, with a thousand mystic excellencies and virtues62 which raised her far above the rude world of man. There was joy in contact with them; and yet there was fear, fear lest his own unworthiness, his untrained tongue or rougher ways should in some way break rudely upon this delicate and tender thing. Such was his thought as the white horse cantered toward him; but a moment later his vague doubts were set at rest by the frank voice of the young girl, who waved her whip in merry greeting.
“Hail and well met, Nigel!” she cried. “Whither away this evening? Sure I am that it is not to see your friends of Cosford, for when did you ever don so brave a doublet for us? Come, Nigel, her name, that I may hate her for ever.”
“Nay63, Edith,” said the young Squire64, laughing back at the laughing girl. “I was indeed coming to Cosford.”
“Then we shall ride back together, for I will go no farther. How think you that I am looking?”
Nigel's answer was in his eyes as he glanced at the fair flushed face, the golden hair, the sparkling eyes and the daintily graceful figure set off in a scarlet-and-black riding-dress. “You are as fair as ever, Edith.”
“Oh, cold of speech! Surely you were bred for the cloisters65, and not for a lady's bower66, Nigel. Had I asked such a question from young Sir George Brocas or the Squire of Fernhurst, he would have raved67 from here to Cosford. They are both more to my taste than you are, Nigel.”
“It is the worse for me, Edith,” said Nigel ruefully.
“Nay, but you must not lose heart.”
“Have I not already lost it?” said he.
“That is better,” she cried, laughing. “You can be quick enough when you choose, Master Malapert. But you are more fit to speak of high and weary matters with my sister Mary. She will have none of the prattle68 and courtesy of Sir George, and yet I love them well. But tell me, Nigel, why do you come to Cosford to-night?”
“To bid you farewell.”
“Me alone?”
“Nay, Edith, you and your sister Mary and the good knight your father.”
“Sir George would have said that he had come for me alone. Indeed you are but a poor courtier beside him. But is it true, Nigel, that you go to France?”
“Yes, Edith.”
“It was so rumored69 after the King had been to Tilford. The story goes that the King goes to France and you in his train. Is that true?”
“Yes, Edith, it is true.”
“Tell me, then, to what part you go, and when?”
“Oh, in sooth!” She tossed her fair head and rode onward in silence, with compressed lips and angry eyes.
Nigel glanced at her in surprise and dismay. “Surely, Edith,” said he at last, “you have overmuch regard for my honor that you should wish me to break the word that I have given?”
“Your honor belongs to you, and my likings belong to me,” said she. “You hold fast to the one, and I will do the same by the other.”
They rode in silence through Thursley village. Then a thought came to her mind and in an instant her anger was forgotten and she was hot on a new scent71.
“What would you do if I were injured, Nigel? I have heard my father say that small as you are there is no man in these parts could stand against you. Would you be my champion if I suffered wrong?”
“Surely I or any man of gentle blood would be the champion of any woman who had suffered wrong.”
“You or any and I or any—what sort of speech is that? Is it a compliment, think you, to be mixed with a drove in that fashion? My question was of you and me. If I were wronged would you be my man?”
“Try me and see, Edith!”
“Then I will do so, Nigel. Either Sir George Brocas or the Squire of Fernhurst would gladly do what I ask, and yet I am of a mind, Nigel, to turn to you.”
“I pray you to tell me what it is.”
“You know Paul de la Fosse of Shalford?”
“You mean the small man with the twisted back?”
“He is no smaller than yourself, Nigel, and as to his back there are many folk that I know who would be glad to have his face.”
“Nay, I am no judge of that, and I spoke out of no discourtesy. What of the man?”
“What—on that poor twisted creature?”
“I tell you that he has flouted me!”
“But how?”
“I should have thought that a true cavalier would have flown to my aid, withouten all these questions. But I will tell you, since I needs must. Know then that he was one of those who came around me and professed73 to be my own. Then, merely because he thought that there were others who were as dear to me as himself he left me, and now he pays court to Maude Twynham, the little freckle-faced hussy in his village.”
“But how has this hurt you, since he was no man of thine?”
“He was one of my men, was he not? And he has made game of me to his wench. He has told her things about me. He has made me foolish in her eyes. Yes, yes, I can read it in her saffron face and in her watery74 eyes when we meet at the church door on Sundays. She smiles—yes, smiles at me! Nigel, go to him! Do not slay75 him, nor even wound him, but lay his face open with thy riding-whip, and then come back to me and tell me how I can serve you.”
Nigel's face was haggard with the strife76 within, for desire ran hot in every vein77, and yet reason shrank with horror. “By Saint Paul! Edith,” he cried, “I see no honor nor advancement78 of any sort in this thing which you have asked me to do. Is it for me to strike one who is no better than a cripple? For my manhood I could not do such a deed, and I pray you, dear lady, that you will set me some other task.”
Her eyes flashed at him in contempt. “And you are a man-at-arms!” she cried, laughing in bitter scorn. “You are afraid of a little man who can scarce walk. Yes, yes, say what you will, I shall ever believe that you have heard of his skill at fence and of his great spirit, and that your heart has failed you! You are right, Nigel. He is indeed a perilous79 man. Had you done what I asked he would have slain80 you, and so you have shown your wisdom.”
Nigel flushed and winced81 under the words, but he said no more, for his mind was fighting hard within him, striving to keep that high image of woman which seemed for a moment to totter82 on the edge of a fall. Together in silence, side by side, the little man and the stately woman, the yellow charger and the white jennet, passed up the sandy winding84 track with the gorse and the bracken head-high on either side. Soon a path branched off through a gateway85 marked with the boar-heads of the Buttesthorns, and there was the low widespread house heavily timbered, loud with the barking of dogs. The ruddy Knight limped forth with outstretched hand and roaring voice—
“What how, Nigel! Good welcome and all hail! I had thought that you had given over poor friends like us, now that the King had made so much of you. The horses, varlets, or my crutch86 will be across you! Hush87, Lydiard! Down, Pelamon! I can scarce hear my voice for your yelping88. Mary, a cup of wine for young Squire Loring!”
She stood framed in the doorway, tall, mystic, silent, with strange, wistful face and deep soul shining in her dark, questioning eyes. Nigel kissed the hand that she held out, and all his faith in woman and his reverence89 came back to him as he looked at her. Her sister had slipped behind her and her fair elfish face smiled her forgiveness of Nigel over Mary's shoulder.
The Knight of Duplin leaned his weight upon the young man's arm and limped his way across the great high-roofed hall to his capacious oaken chair. “Come, come, the stool, Edith!” he cried. “As God is my help, that girl's mind swarms90 with gallants as a granary with rats. Well, Nigel, I hear strange tales of your spear-running at Tilford and of the visit of the King. How seemed he? And my old friend Chandos—many happy hours in the woodlands have we had together—and Manny too, he was ever a bold and a hard rider—what news of them all?”
Nigel told to the old Knight all that had occurred, saying little of his own success and much of his own failure, yet the eyes of the dark woman burned the brighter as she sat at her tapestry92 and listened.
Sir John followed the story with a running fire of oaths, prayers, thumps93 with his great fist and flourishes of his crutch. “Well, well, lad, you could scarce expect to hold your saddle against Manny, and you have carried yourself well. We are proud of you, Nigel, for you are our own man, reared in the heather country. But indeed I take shame that you are not more skilled in the mystery of the woods, seeing that I have had the teaching of you, and that no one in broad England is my master at the craft. I pray you to fill your cup again whilst I make use of the little time that is left to us.”
And straightway the old Knight began a long and weary lecture upon the times of grace and when each beast and bird was seasonable, with many anecdotes94, illustrations, warnings and exceptions, drawn95 from his own great experience. He spoke also of the several ranks and grades of the chase: how the hare, hart and boar must ever take precedence over the buck96, the doe, the fox, the marten and the roe97, even as a knight banneret does over a knight, while these in turn are of a higher class to the badger98, the wildcat or the otter83, who are but the common populace of the world of beasts. Of blood-stains also he spoke—how the skilled hunter may see at a glance if blood be dark and frothy, which means a mortal hurt, or thin and clear, which means that the arrow has struck a bone.
“By such signs,” said he, “you will surely know whether to lay on the hounds and cast down the blinks which hinder the stricken deer in its flight. But above all I pray you, Nigel, to have a care in the use of the terms of the craft, lest you should make some blunder at table, so that those who are wiser may have the laugh of you, and we who love you may be shamed.”
“Nay, Sir John,” said Nigel. “I think that after your teaching I can hold my place with the others.”
The old Knight shook his white head doubtfully. “There is so much to be learned that there is no one who can be said to know all,” said he. “For example, Nigel, it is sooth that for every collection of beasts of the forest, and for every gathering99 of birds of the air, there is their own private name so that none may be confused with another.”
“I know it, fair sir.”
“You know it, Nigel, but you do not know each separate name, else are you a wiser man than I had thought you. In truth—none can say that they know all, though I have myself picked off eighty, and six for a wager100 at court, and it is said that the chief huntsman of the Duke of Burgundy has counted over a hundred—but it is in my mind that he may have found them as he went, for there was none to say him nay. Answer me now, lad, how would you say if you saw ten badgers101 together in the forest?”
“A cete of badgers, fair sir.”
“Good, Nigel—good, by my faith! And if you walk in Woolmer Forest and see a swarm91 of foxes, how would you call it?”
“And if they be lions?”
“Nay, fair sir, I am not like to meet several lions in Woolmer Forest.”
“Aye, lad, but there are other forests besides Woolmer, and other lands besides England, and who can tell how far afield such a knight errant as Nigel of Tilford may go, when he sees worship to be won? We will say that you were in the deserts of Nubia, and that afterward103 at the court of the great Sultan you wished to say that you had seen several lions, which is the first beast of the chase, being the king of all animals. How then would you say it?”
Nigel scratched his head. “Surely, fair sir, I would be content to say that I had seen a number of lions, if indeed I could say aught after so wondrous an adventure.”
“Nay, Nigel, a huntsman would have said that he had seen a pride of lions, and so proved that he knew the language of the chase. Now had it been boars instead of lions?”
“One says a singular of boars.”
“And if they be swine?”
“Nay, nay, lad, it is indeed sad to see how little you know. Your hands, Nigel, were always better than your head. No man of gentle birth would speak of a herd of swine; that is the peasant speech. If you drive them it is a herd. If you hunt them it is other. What call you them, then, Edith?”
“Nay, I know not,” said the girl listlessly. A crumpled105 note brought in by a varlet was clinched106 in her right hand and her blue eyes looked afar into the deep shadows of the roof.
“But you can tell us, Mary?”
“Surely, sweet sir, one talks of a sounder of swine.”
The old Knight laughed exultantly107. “Here is a pupil who never brings me shame!” he cried. “Be it lore—of chivalry or heraldry or woodcraft or what you will, I can always turn to Mary. Many a man can she put to the blush.”
“Myself among them,” said Nigel.
“Ah, lad, you are a Solomon to some of them. Hark ye! only last week that jack-fool, the young Lord of Brocas, was here talking of having seen a covey of pheasants in the wood. One such speech would have been the ruin of a young Squire at the court. How would you have said it, Nigel?”
“Surely, fair sir, it should be a nye of pheasants.”
“Good, Nigel—a nye of pheasants, even as it is a gaggle of geese or a badling of ducks, a fall of woodcock or a wisp of snipe. But a covey of pheasants! What sort of talk is that? I made him sit even where you are sitting, Nigel, and I saw the bottom of two pots of Rhenish ere I let him up. Even then I fear that he had no great profit from his lesson, for he was casting his foolish eyes at Edith when he should have been turning his ears to her father. But where is the wench?”
“She hath gone forth, father.”
“She ever doth go forth when there is a chance of learning aught that is useful indoors. But supper will soon be ready, and there is a boar's ham fresh from the forest with which I would ask your help, Nigel, and a side of venison from the King's own chase. The tinemen and verderers have not forgotten me yet, and my larder108 is ever full. Blow three moots109 on the horn, Mary, that the varlets may set the table, for the growing shadow and my loosening belt warn me that it is time.”
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1
manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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treasurer
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| n.司库，财务主管 | |
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bracelet
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| n.手镯，臂镯 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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fretted
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| 焦躁的，附有弦马的，腐蚀的 | |
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fumed
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| 愤怒( fume的过去式和过去分词 )； 大怒； 发怒； 冒烟 | |
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shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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wrench
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| v.猛拧；挣脱；使扭伤；n.扳手；痛苦，难受 | |
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rivets
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| 铆钉( rivet的名词复数 ) | |
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crab
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| n.螃蟹，偏航，脾气乖戾的人，酸苹果；vi.捕蟹，偏航，发牢骚；vt.使偏航，发脾气 | |
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burnished
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| adj.抛光的，光亮的v.擦亮（金属等），磨光( burnish的过去式和过去分词 )；被擦亮，磨光 | |
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preening
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| v.（鸟）用嘴整理（羽毛）( preen的现在分词 ) | |
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wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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joints
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| 接头( joint的名词复数 )； 关节； 公共场所（尤指价格低廉的饮食和娱乐场所） （非正式）； 一块烤肉 （英式英语） | |
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deft
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| adj.灵巧的，熟练的（a deft hand 能手） | |
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vaulted
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| adj.拱状的 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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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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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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knightly
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| adj. 骑士般的 adv. 骑士般地 | |
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knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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mule
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| n.骡子，杂种，执拗的人 | |
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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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steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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dames
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| n.（在英国）夫人（一种封号），夫人（爵士妻子的称号）( dame的名词复数 )；女人 | |
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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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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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tunic
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| n.束腰外衣 | |
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32
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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33
hawk
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| n.鹰，骗子；鹰派成员 | |
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34
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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35
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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36
rumor
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| n.谣言，谣传，传说 | |
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37
archer
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| n.射手，弓箭手 | |
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38
robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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39
wielded
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| 手持着使用（武器、工具等）( wield的过去式和过去分词 )； 具有； 运用（权力）； 施加（影响） | |
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40
chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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41
hawks
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| 鹰( hawk的名词复数 )； 鹰派人物，主战派人物 | |
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42
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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43
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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45
lore
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| n.传说；学问，经验，知识 | |
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46
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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47
mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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48
chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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49
ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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50
wary
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| adj.谨慎的，机警的，小心的 | |
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51
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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52
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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53
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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54
monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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55
uncouth
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| adj.无教养的，粗鲁的 | |
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56
boulder
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| n.巨砾；卵石，圆石 | |
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57
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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58
lithe
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| adj.(指人、身体)柔软的，易弯的 | |
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59
daunted
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| 使（某人）气馁，威吓( daunt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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60
aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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61
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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62
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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63
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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64
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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65
cloisters
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| n.（学院、修道院、教堂等建筑的）走廊( cloister的名词复数 )；回廊；修道院的生活；隐居v.隐退，使与世隔绝( cloister的第三人称单数 ) | |
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66
bower
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| n.凉亭，树荫下凉快之处；闺房；v.荫蔽 | |
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67
raved
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| v.胡言乱语( rave的过去式和过去分词 )；愤怒地说；咆哮；痴心地说 | |
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68
prattle
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| n.闲谈；v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话；发出连续而无意义的声音 | |
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69
rumored
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| adj.传说的，谣传的v.传闻( rumor的过去式和过去分词 )；[古]名誉；咕哝；[古]喧嚷 | |
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70
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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71
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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72
flouted
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| v.藐视，轻视( flout的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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73
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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74
watery
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| adj.有水的，水汪汪的；湿的，湿润的 | |
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75
slay
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| v.杀死，宰杀，杀戮 | |
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76
strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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77
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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78
advancement
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| n.前进，促进，提升 | |
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79
perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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80
slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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81
winced
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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82
totter
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| v.蹒跚， 摇摇欲坠；n.蹒跚的步子 | |
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83
otter
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| n.水獭 | |
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84
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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85
gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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86
crutch
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| n.T字形拐杖；支持，依靠，精神支柱 | |
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87
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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88
yelping
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| v.发出短而尖的叫声( yelp的现在分词 ) | |
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89
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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90
swarms
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| 蜂群，一大群( swarm的名词复数 ) | |
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91
swarm
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| n.(昆虫)等一大群；vi.成群飞舞；蜂拥而入 | |
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92
tapestry
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| n.挂毯，丰富多采的画面 | |
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93
thumps
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| n.猪肺病；砰的重击声( thump的名词复数 )v.重击， （指心脏）急速跳动( thump的第三人称单数 ) | |
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94
anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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95
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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96
buck
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| n.雄鹿，雄兔；v.马离地跳跃 | |
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97
roe
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| n.鱼卵；獐鹿 | |
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98
badger
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| v.一再烦扰，一再要求，纠缠 | |
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99
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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100
wager
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| n.赌注；vt.押注，打赌 | |
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101
badgers
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| n.獾( badger的名词复数 )；獾皮；（大写）獾州人（美国威斯康星州人的别称）；毛鼻袋熊 | |
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102
skulk
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| v.藏匿；潜行 | |
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103
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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104
herd
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| n.兽群，牧群；vt.使集中，把…赶在一起 | |
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105
crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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106
clinched
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| v.（尤指两人）互相紧紧抱[扭]住( clinch的过去式和过去分词 )；解决（争端、交易），达成（协议） | |
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107
exultantly
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| adv.狂欢地，欢欣鼓舞地 | |
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108
larder
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| n.食物贮藏室，食品橱 | |
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109
moots
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| v.提出…供讨论( moot的第三人称单数 ) | |
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