When Alday had left us, the charming señorita, in whose care I was well pleased to find myself, led me into a cool, spacious1 room, dimly lighted, scantily2 furnished, and with a floor of red tiles. It was a great relief to drop into a sofa there, for I now felt fatigued3 and suffered great pain from my arm. In a few moments I had the señorita, her mother, Doña Mercedes, and an old serving-woman all round me. Gently drawing off my coat, they subjected my wounded arm to a minute examination; their compassionate4 finger-tips—those of the lovely Dolores especially—feeling like a soft, cooling rain on the swollen5, inflamed6 part, which had become quite purple.
“Ah, how barbarous of them to hurt you like that! a friend, too, of our General!” exclaimed my beautiful nurse; which made me think that I had involuntarily become associated with the right political party in the State.
They rubbed the arm with sweet oil; while the old servant brought in a bundle of rue7 from the garden, which, being bruised8 in a mortar9, filled the room with a fresh, aromatic10 smell. With this fragrant11 herb she made a cooling cataplasm. Having dressed my arm, they placed it in a sling12, then in place of my coat a light Indian poncho13 was brought for me to wear.
“I think you are feverish,” said Doña Mercedes, feeling my pulse. “We must send for the doctor—we have a doctor in our little town, a very skilful14 man.”
“I have little faith in doctors, señora,” I said, “but great faith in women and grapes. If you will give me a cluster from your vine to refresh my blood I promise to be well very soon.”
Dolores laughed lightly and left the room, only to return in a few minutes with a dish full of ripe, purple clusters. They were delicious, and did seem to allay15 the fever I felt, which had probably been caused as much by angry passions as by the blow I had received.
While I reclined luxuriously16, sucking my grapes, the two ladies sat on each side of me, ostensibly fanning themselves, but only, I think, trying to make the air cooler for me. Very cool and pleasant they made it, certainly, but the gentle attentions of Dolores were at the same time such as might well create a subtler kind of fever in a man's veins—a malady18 not to be cured by fruit, fans, or phlebotomy.
“Who would not suffer blows for such compensation as this!” I said.
“Do not say such a thing!” exclaimed the señorita, with wonderful animation19. “Have you not rendered a great service to our dear General—to our beloved country! If we had it in our power to give you everything your heart might desire it would be nothing, nothing. We must be your debtors20 for ever.”
I smiled at her extravagant21 words, but they were very sweet to hear, none the less.
“Your ardent22 love of your country is a beautiful sentiment,” I remarked somewhat indiscreetly, “but is General Santa Coloma so necessary to its welfare?”
She looked offended and did not reply. “You are a stranger in our country, señor, and do not quite understand these things,” said the mother gently. “Dolores must not forget that. You know nothing of the cruel wars we have seen and how our enemies have conquered only by bringing in the foreigner to their aid. Ah, señor, the bloodshed, the proscriptions, the infamies24 which they have brought on this land! But there is one man they have never yet succeeded in crushing: always from boyhood he has been foremost in the fight, defying their bullets, and not to be corrupted25 by their Brazilian gold. Is it strange that he is so much to us, who have lost all our relations, and have suffered many persecutions, being deprived almost of the means of subsistence that hirelings and traitors27 might be enriched with our property? To us in this house he is even more than to others. He was my husband's friend and companion in arms. He has done us a thousand favours, and if he ever succeeds in overthrowing28 this infamous29 government he will restore to us all the property we have lost. But ai de mi, I cannot see deliverance yet.”
“Mamita, do not say such a thing!” exclaimed her daughter. “Do you begin to despair now when there is most reason to hope?”
“Child, what can he do with this handful of ill-armed men?” returned the mother sadly. “He has bravely raised the standard, but the people do not flock to it. Ah, when this revolt is crushed, like so many others, we poor women will only have to lament30 for more friends slain31 and fresh persecutions.” And here she covered her eyes with her handkerchief.
Dolores tossed her head back and made a sudden gesture of impatience32.
“Do you, then, expect to see a great army formed before the ink is dry on the General's proclamation? When Santa Coloma was a fugitive33 without a follower34 you hoped; now when he is with us, and actually preparing for a march on the capital, you begin to lose heart—I cannot understand it!”
Doña Mercedes rose without replying, and left the room. The lovely enthusiast35 dropped her head on her hand, and remained silent, taking no notice of me, a cloud of sorrow on her countenance36.
“Señorita,” I said, “it is not necessary for you to remain longer here. Only tell me before going that you forgive me, for it makes me very unhappy to think that I have offended you.”
She turned to me with a very bright smile and gave me her hand.
“Ah, it is for you to forgive me for hastily taking offence at a light word,” she said. “I must not allow anything you say in future to spoil my gratitude37. Do you know I think you are one of those who like to laugh at most things, señor—no, let me call you Richard, and you shall call me Dolores, for we must remain friends always. Let us make a compact, then it will be impossible for us to quarrel. You shall be free to doubt, question, laugh at everything, except one thing only—my faith in Santa Coloma.”
“Yes, I will gladly make that agreement,” I replied. “It will be a new kind of paradise, and of the fruit of every tree I may eat except of this tree only.”
“I will now leave you,” she said. “You are suffering pain, and are very tired. Perhaps you will be able to sleep.” While speaking she brought a second cushion for my head, then left me, and before long I fell into a refreshing39 doze40.
I spent three days of enforced idleness at the Casa Blanca, as the house was called, before Santa Coloma returned, and after the rough experience I had undergone, during which I had subsisted41 on a flesh diet untempered by bread or vegetables, they were indeed like days spent in paradise to me. Then the General came back. I was sitting alone in the garden when he arrived, and, coming out to me, he greeted me warmly.
“I greatly feared from my previous experience of your impatience under restraint that you might have left us,” he said kindly42.
“I could not do that very well yet, without a horse to ride on,” I returned.
“Well, I came here just now to say I wish to present you with a horse and saddle. The horse is standing43 at the gate now, I believe; but, if you are only waiting for a horse to leave us I shall have to regret making you this present. Do not be in a hurry; you have yet many years to live in which to accomplish all you wish to do, and let us have the pleasure of your company a few days longer. Doña Mercedes and her daughter desire nothing better than to keep you with them.”
I promised him not to run away immediately, a promise which was not hard to make; then we went to inspect my horse, which proved to be a very fine bay, saddled with a dashing native recado.
“Come with me and try him,” he said. “I am going to ride out to the Cerro Solo.”
The ride proved an extremely pleasant one, as I had not mounted a horse for some days, and had been longing44 to spice my idle hours with a little exhilarating motion. We went at a swinging gallop45 over the grassy46 plain, the General all the time discoursing47 freely of his plans and of the brilliant prospects48 awaiting all those timely-wise individuals who should elect to link their fortunes with his at this early stage of the campaign.
The Cerro, three leagues distant from the village of El Molino, was a high, conical hill standing quite alone and overlooking the country for a vast distance around. A few well-mounted men were stationed on the summit, keeping watch; and, after talking with them for a while, the General led me to a spot a hundred yards away, where there was a large mound50 of sand and stone, up which we made our horses climb with some difficulty. While we stood here he pointed51 out the conspicuous52 objects on the surface of the surrounding country, telling me the names of the estancias, rivers, distant hills, and other things. The whole country about us seemed very familiar to him. He ceased speaking at length, but continued gazing over the wide, sunlit prospect49 with a strange, far-off look on his face. Suddenly dropping the reins53 on the neck of his horse, he stretched out his arms towards the south and began to murmur54 words which I could not catch, while an expression of mingled55 fury and exultation56 transformed his face. It passed away as suddenly as it came. Then he dismounted, and, stooping till his knee touched the ground, he kissed the rock before him, after which he sat down and quietly invited me to do the same. Returning to the subject he had talked about during our ride, he began openly pressing me to join him in his march to Montevideo, which, he said, would begin almost immediately, and would infallibly result in a victory, after which he would reward me for the incalculable service I had rendered him in assisting him to escape from the Juez of Las Cuevas. These tempting57 offers, which would have fired my brain in other circumstances—the single state, I mean—I felt compelled to decline, though I did not state my real reasons for doing so. He shrugged58 his shoulders in the eloquent59 Oriental fashion, remarking that it would not surprise him if I altered my resolution in a few days.
“Never!” I mentally ejaculated.
Then he recalled our first meeting again, spoke60 of Margarita, that marvellously beautiful child, asking if I had not thought it strange so fair a flower as that should have sprung from the homely61 stalk of a sweet potato? I answered that I had been surprised at first, but had ceased to believe that she was a child of Batata's, or of any of his kin17. He then offered to tell me Margarita's history; and I was not surprised to hear that he knew it.
“I owe you this,” he said, “in expiation62 of the somewhat offensive remarks I addressed to you that day in reference to the girl. But you must remember that I was then only Marcos Marcó, a peasant, and, having some slight knowledge of acting63, it was only natural that my speech should be, as you find it in our common people, somewhat dry and ironical64.
“Many years ago there lived in this country one Basilio de la Barca, a person of so noble a figure and countenance that to all those who beheld65 him he became the type of perfect beauty, so that a 'Basilio de la Barca' came to be a proverbial expression in Montevidean society when anyone surpassingly handsome was spoken of. Though he had a gay, light-hearted disposition66 and loved social pleasures, he was not spoilt by the admiration67 his beauty excited. Simple-minded and modest he remained always; though perhaps not capable of any very strong passion, for though he won, without seeking it, the hearts of many fair women, he did not marry. He might have married some rich woman to improve his position had he been so minded, but in this, as in everything else in his life, Basilio appeared to be incapable68 of doing anything to advance his own fortunes. The de la Barcas had once possessed69 great wealth in land in the country, and, I have heard, descended70 from an ancient noble family of Spain. During the long, disastrous71 wars this country has suffered, when it was conquered in turn by England, Portugal, Spain, Brazil, and the Argentines, the family became impoverished72, and at last appeared to be dying out. The last of the de la Barcas was Basilio, and the evil destiny which had pursued all of that name for so many generations did not spare him. His whole life was a series of calamities73. When young he entered the army, but in his first engagement he received a terrible wound which disabled him for life and compelled him to abandon the military career. After that he embarked74 all his little fortune in commerce, and was ruined by a dishonest partner. At length when he had been reduced to great poverty, being then about forty years old, he married an old woman out of gratitude for the kindness she had shown to him; and with her he went to live on the sea-coast, several leagues east of Cabo Santa Maria. Here in a small rancho in a lonely spot called Barranca del Peregrine, and with only a few sheep and cows to subsist26 on, he spent the remainder of his life. His wife, though old, bore him one child, a daughter, named Transita. They taught her nothing; for in all respects they lived like peasants and had forgotten the use of books. The situation was also wild and solitary75, and they very seldom saw a strange face. Transita spent her childhood in rambling76 over the dunes77 on that lonely coast, with only wild flowers, birds, and the ocean waves for playmates. One day, her age being then about eleven, she was at her usual pastimes, her golden hair blowing in the wind, her short dress and bare legs wet with the spray, chasing the waves as they retired78, or flying with merry shouts from them as they hurried back towards the shore, flinging a cloud of foam79 over her retreating form, when a youth, a boy of fifteen, rode up and saw her there. He was hunting ostriches80, when, losing sight of his companions, and finding himself near the ocean, he rode down to the shore to watch the tide coming in.
“Yes, I was that boy, Richard—you are quick in making conclusions.” This he said not in reply to any remark I had made, but to my thoughts, which he frequently guessed very aptly.
“The impression this exquisite81 child made on me it would be impossible to convey in words. I had lived much in the capital, had been educated in our best college, and was accustomed to associate with pretty women. I had also crossed the water and had seen all that was most worthy82 of admiration in the Argentine cities. And remember that with us a youth of fifteen already knows something of life. This child, playing with the waves, was like nothing I had seen before. I regarded her not as a mere83 human creature; she seemed more like some being from I know not what far-off celestial84 region who had strayed to earth, just as a bird of white and azure85 plumage, and unknown to our woods, sometimes appears, blown hither from a distant tropical country or island, filling those who see it with wonder and delight. Imagine, if you can, Margarita with her shining hair loose to the winds, swift and graceful86 in her motions as the waves she plays with, her sapphire87 eyes sparkling like sunlight on the waters, the tender tints88 of the sea-shell in her ever-changing countenance, with a laughter that seems to echo the wild melody of the sandpiper's note. Margarita has inherited the form, not the spirit, of the child Transita. She is an exquisite statue endowed with life. Transita, with lines equally graceful and colours just as perfect, had caught the spirit of the wind and sunshine and was all freedom, motion, fire—a being half human, half angelic. I saw her only to love her; nor was it a common passion she inspired in me. I worshipped her, and longed to wear her on my bosom89; but I shrank then and for a long time after from breathing the hot breath of love on so tender and heavenly a blossom. I went to her parents and opened my heart to them. My family being well known to Basilio, I obtained his consent to visit their lonely rancho whenever I could; and I, on my part, promised not to speak of love to Transita till her sixteenth year. Three years after I had found Transita, I was ordered to a distant part of the country, for I was already in the army then, and, fearing that it would not be possible for me to visit them for a long time, I persuaded Basilio to let me speak to his daughter, who was now fourteen. She had by this time grown extremely fond of me, and she always looked forward with delight to my visits, when we would spend days together rambling along the shore, or seated on some cliff overlooking the sea, talking of the simple things she knew, and of that wonderful, far-away city life of which she was never tired of hearing. When I opened my heart to her she was at first frightened at these new strange emotions I spoke of. Soon, however, I was made happy by seeing her fear grow less. In one day she ceased to be a child; the rich blood mantled90 her cheeks, to leave her the next moment pale and tremulous; her tender lips were toying with the rim91 of the honeyed cup. Before I left her she had promised me her hand, and at parting even clung to me, with her beautiful eyes wet with tears.
“Three years passed before I returned to seek her. During that time I sent scores of letters to Basilio, but received no reply. Twice I was wounded in fight, once very seriously. I was also a prisoner for several months. I made my escape at last, and, returning to Montevideo, obtained leave of absence. Then, with heart afire with sweet anticipations92, I sought that lonely sea-coast once more, only to find the weeds growing on the spot where Basilio's rancho had stood. In the neighbourhood I learnt that he had died two years before, and that after his death the widow had returned to Montevideo with Transita. After long inquiry93 in that city I discovered that she had not long survived her husband, and that a foreign señora, had taken Transita away, no one knew whither. Her loss cast a great shadow on my life. Poignant94 grief cannot endure for ever, nor for very long; only the memory of grief endures. To this memory, which cannot fade, it is perhaps due that in one respect at least I am not like other men. I feel that I am incapable of passion for any woman. No, not if a new Lucrezia Borgia were to come my way, scattering95 the fiery96 seeds of adoration97 upon all men, could they blossom to love in this arid98 heart. Since I lost Transita I have had one thought, one love, one religion, and it is all told in one word—Patria.
“Years passed. I was captain in General Oribe's army at the siege of my own city. One day a lad was captured in our lines, and came very near being put to death as a spy. He had come out from Montevideo, and was looking for me. He had been sent, he said, by Transita de la Barca, who was lying ill in the town, and desired to speak to me before she died. I asked and obtained permission from our General, who had a strong personal friendship for me, to penetrate99 into the town. This was, of course, dangerous, and more so for me, perhaps, than it would have been for many of my brother officers, for I was very well known to the besieged100. I succeeded, however, by persuading the officers of a French sloop101 of war, stationed in the harbour, to assist me. These foreigners at that time had friendly relations with the officers of both armies, and three of them had at one time visited our General to ask him to let them hunt ostriches in the interior. He passed them on to me, and, taking them to my own estancia, I entertained them and hunted with them for several days. For this hospitality they had expressed themselves very grateful, inviting102 me repeatedly to visit them on board, and also saying that they would gladly do me any personal service in the town, which they visited constantly. I love not the French, believing them to be the most vain and egotistical, consequently the least chivalrous103, of mankind; but these officers were in my debt, and I resolved to ask them to help me. Under cover of night I went on board their ship; I told them my story, and asked them to take me on shore with them disguised as one of themselves. With some difficulty they consented, and I was thus enabled next day to be in Montevideo and with my long-lost Transita. I found her lying on her bed, emaciated104 and white as death, in the last stage of some fatal pulmonary complaint. On the bed with her was a child between two and three years old, exceedingly beautiful like her mother, for one glance was sufficient to tell me it was Transita's child. Overcome with grief at finding her in this pitiful condition, I could only kneel at her side, pouring out the last tender tears that have fallen from these eyes. We Orientals are not tearless men, and I have wept since then, but only with rage and hatred105. My last tears of tenderness were shed over unhappy, dying Transita.
“Briefly she told me her story. No letter from me had ever reached Basilio; it was supposed that I had fallen in battle, or that my heart had changed. When her mother lay dying in Montevideo she was visited by a wealthy Argentine lady named Romero, who had heard of Transita's singular beauty, and wished to see her merely out of curiosity. She was so charmed with the girl that she offered to take her and bring her up as her own daughter. To this the mother, who was reduced to the greatest poverty and was dying, consented gladly. Transita was in this way taken to Buenos Ayres, where she had masters to instruct her, and lived in great splendour. The novelty of this life charmed her for a time; the pleasures of a large city, and the universal admiration her beauty excited, occupied her mind and made her happy. When she was seventeen the Señora Romero bestowed106 her hand on a young man of that city, named Andrada, a wealthy person. He was a fashionable man, a gambler, and a Sybarite, and, having conceived a violent passion for the girl, he succeeded in winning over the señora to aid his suit. Before marrying him Transita told him frankly107 that she felt incapable of great affection for him; he cared nothing for that, he only wished, like the animal he was, to possess her for her beauty. Shortly after marrying her he took her to Europe, knowing very well that a man with a full purse, and whose spirit is a compound of swine and goat, finds life pleasanter in Paris than in the Plata. In Paris Transita lived a gay, but an unhappy life. Her husband's passion for her soon passed away, and was succeeded by neglect and insult. After three miserable108 years he abandoned her altogether to live with another woman, and then, in broken health, she returned with her child to her own country. When she had been several months in Montevideo she heard casually109 that I was still alive and in the besieging110 army; and, anxious to impart her last wishes to a friend, had sent for me.
“Could you, my friend, could any man, divine the nature of that dying request Transita wished to make?
“Pointing to her child, she said, 'Do you not see that Margarita inherits that fatal gift of beauty which won for me a life of splendour, with extreme bitterness of heart and early death? Soon, before I die, perhaps, there will not be wanting some new señora Romero to take charge of her, who will at last sell her to some rich, cruel man, as I was sold; for how can her beauty remain long concealed112? It was with very different views for her that I secretly left Paris and returned here. During all the miserable years I spent there I thought more and more of my childhood on that lonely coast, until, when I fell ill, I resolved to go back there to spend my last days on that beloved spot where I had been so happy. It was my intention to find some peasant family there who would be willing to take Margarita and bring her up as a peasant's child, with no knowledge of her father's position and of the life men live in towns. The siege and my failing health made it impossible for me to carry out that plan. I must die here, dear friend, and never see that lonely coast where we have sat together so often watching the waves. But I think only of poor little Margarita now, who will soon be motherless: will you not help me to save her? Promise me that you will take her away to some distant place, where she will be brought up as a peasant's child, and where her father will never find her. If you can promise me this, I will resign her to you now, and face death without even the sad consolation113 of seeing her by me to the last.'
“I promised to carry out her wishes, and also to see the child as often as circumstances would allow, and when she grew up to find her a good husband. But I would not deprive her of the child then. I told her that if she died, Margarita would be conveyed to the French ship in the harbour, and afterwards to me, and that I knew where to place her with good-hearted, simple peasants who loved me, and would obey my wishes in all things.
“She was satisfied, and I left her to make the necessary arrangements to carry out my plans. A few weeks later Transita expired, and the child was brought to me. I then sent her to Batata's house, where, ignorant of the secret of her birth, she has been brought up as her mother wished her to be. May she never, like the unhappy Transita, fall into the power of a ravening114 beast in man's shape.”
“Amen!” I exclaimed. “But surely, if this child will be entitled to a fortune some day, it will only be right that she should have it.”
“We do not worship gold in this country,” he replied. “With us the poor are just as happy as the rich, their wants are so few, and easily satisfied. It would be too much to say that I love the child more than I love anyone else; I think only of Transita's wishes; that for me is the only right in the matter. Had I failed to carry them out to the letter, then I should have suffered a great remorse115. Possibly I may encounter Andrada some day, and pass my sword through his body; that would give me no remorse.”
After some moments of silence he looked up and said, “Richard, you admired and loved that beautiful girl when you first saw her. Listen, if you wish it you shall have her for a wife. She is simple-minded, ignorant of the world, affectionate, and where she is told to love she will love. Batata's people will obey my wishes in everything.”
I shook my head, smiling somewhat sorrowfully when I thought that the events of the last few days had already half obliterated116 Margarita's fair image from my mind. This unexpected proposition had, moreover, forced on me, with a startling suddenness, the fact that by once performing the act of marriage a man has for ever used up the most glorious privilege of his sex—of course, I mean in countries where he is only allowed to have one wife. It was no longer in my power to say to any woman, however charming I might find her, “Be my wife.” But I did not explain all this to the General.
“Ah, you are thinking of conditions,” said he; “there will be none.”
“No, you have guessed wrong—for once,” I returned. “The girl is all you say; I have never seen a being more beautiful, and I have never heard a more romantic story than the one you have just told me about her birth. I can only echo your prayer that she may not suffer as her mother did. In name she is not a de la Barca, and perhaps destiny will spare her on that account.”
He glanced keenly at me and smiled. “Perhaps you are thinking more of Dolores than of Margarita just now,” he said. “Let me warn you of your danger there, my young friend. She is already promised to another.”
Absurdly unreasonable117 as it may seem, I felt a jealous pang118 at that information; but then, of course, we are not reasonable beings, whatever the philosophers say.
I laughed, not very gaily, I must confess, and answered that there was no need to warn me, as Dolores would never be more to me than a very dear friend.
Even then I did not tell him that I was a married man; for often in the Banda Orientál I did not quite seem to know how to mix my truth and lies, and so preferred to hold my tongue. In this instance, as subsequent events proved, I held it not wisely but too well. The open man, with no secrets from the world, often enough escapes disasters which overtake your very discreet23 person, who acts on the old adage119 that speech was given to us to conceal111 our thoughts.
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spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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scantily
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| adv.缺乏地；不充足地；吝啬地；狭窄地 | |
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fatigued
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| adj. 疲乏的 | |
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compassionate
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| adj.有同情心的，表示同情的 | |
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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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inflamed
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| adj.发炎的，红肿的v.（使）变红，发怒，过热( inflame的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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mortar
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| n.灰浆，灰泥；迫击炮；v.把…用灰浆涂接合 | |
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aromatic
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| adj.芳香的，有香味的 | |
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fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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sling
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| vt.扔；悬挂；n.挂带；吊索，吊兜；弹弓 | |
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poncho
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| n.斗篷，雨衣 | |
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skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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allay
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| v.消除，减轻(恐惧、怀疑等) | |
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luxuriously
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| adv.奢侈地，豪华地 | |
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kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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debtors
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| n.债务人，借方( debtor的名词复数 ) | |
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extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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infamies
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| n.声名狼藉( infamy的名词复数 )；臭名；丑恶；恶行 | |
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corrupted
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| （使）败坏( corrupt的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）腐化； 引起（计算机文件等的）错误； 破坏 | |
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subsist
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| vi.生存，存在，供养 | |
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traitors
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| 卖国贼( traitor的名词复数 )； 叛徒； 背叛者； 背信弃义的人 | |
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overthrowing
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| v.打倒，推翻( overthrow的现在分词 )；使终止 | |
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29
infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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lament
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| n.悲叹，悔恨，恸哭；v.哀悼，悔恨，悲叹 | |
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31
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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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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34
follower
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| n.跟随者；随员；门徒；信徒 | |
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35
enthusiast
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| n.热心人，热衷者 | |
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36
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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37
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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38
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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39
refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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40
doze
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| v.打瞌睡；n.打盹，假寐 | |
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41
subsisted
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| v.（靠很少的钱或食物）维持生活，生存下去( subsist的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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42
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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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
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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45
gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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46
grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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discoursing
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| 演说（discourse的现在分词形式） | |
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48
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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50
mound
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| n.土墩，堤，小山；v.筑堤，用土堆防卫 | |
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51
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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54
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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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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exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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58
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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60
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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homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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62
expiation
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| n.赎罪，补偿 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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72
impoverished
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| adj.穷困的，无力的，用尽了的v.使（某人）贫穷( impoverish的过去式和过去分词 )；使（某物）贫瘠或恶化 | |
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73
calamities
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| n.灾祸，灾难( calamity的名词复数 )；不幸之事 | |
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74
embarked
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| 乘船( embark的过去式和过去分词 )； 装载； 从事 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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76
rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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77
dunes
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| 沙丘( dune的名词复数 ) | |
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78
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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79
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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80
ostriches
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| n.鸵鸟( ostrich的名词复数 )；逃避现实的人，不愿正视现实者 | |
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81
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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82
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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83
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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84
celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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85
azure
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| adj.天蓝色的，蔚蓝色的 | |
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86
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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87
sapphire
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| n.青玉，蓝宝石；adj.天蓝色的 | |
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88
tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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89
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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90
mantled
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| 披着斗篷的，覆盖着的 | |
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91
rim
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| n.(圆物的)边，轮缘；边界 | |
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92
anticipations
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| 预期( anticipation的名词复数 )； 预测； （信托财产收益的）预支； 预期的事物 | |
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93
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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94
poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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95
scattering
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| n.[物]散射；散乱，分散；在媒介质中的散播adj.散乱的；分散在不同范围的；广泛扩散的；（选票）数量分散的v.散射(scatter的ing形式)；散布；驱散 | |
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96
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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97
adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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98
arid
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| adj.干旱的；(土地)贫瘠的 | |
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99
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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100
besieged
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| 包围，围困，围攻( besiege的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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101
sloop
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| n.单桅帆船 | |
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102
inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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103
chivalrous
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| adj.武士精神的；对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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104
emaciated
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| adj.衰弱的，消瘦的 | |
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105
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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106
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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107
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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108
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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109
casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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110
besieging
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| 包围，围困，围攻( besiege的现在分词 ) | |
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111
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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112
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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113
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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114
ravening
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| a.贪婪而饥饿的 | |
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115
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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116
obliterated
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| v.除去( obliterate的过去式和过去分词 )；涂去；擦掉；彻底破坏或毁灭 | |
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117
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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118
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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119
adage
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| n.格言，古训 | |
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