The history of Wyoming is interwoven with that of the Indian missionary1 whose paternal2 care had so long protected the family on Monockonok Island. Like Zinzendorf, his life was one errand of mercy, alike to the heathen and the believer. For years he had served as a link of union between the savage3 life of the woods and the civilization of the plains.
While a comparatively young man, he had come among the Six Nations nameless and unarmed, with his life in his hand, ready to live or die at his post. His home was in the wilderness4; sometimes he passed through the white settlements, preached in their schoolhouses and slept in their cabins; but it was always as a guest; his mission lay with the forest children, and in the wilds where they dwelt was his home.
Almost the entire portion of years which had elapsed since his encounter with Mary Derwent in the hills, he had spent among the savages5 that kept possession of broad hunting grounds beyond the Wind Gap. But a movement of the tribes toward Wyoming, where a detachment of their own people from about Seneca Lake had been appointed to meet them in council, filled him with anxiety for his friends in the valley, and he came back also to watch over their safety. He knew what the settlers were ignorant of as yet—that the Shawnees were about to unite with the Tories, whose leader lay at Wintermoot Fort, and that great peril7 threatened the inhabitants of Wyoming in this union.
This man was alone in a log-cabin which Zinzendorf 47had once occupied on a curving bank of the Susquehanna, between Wilkesbarre and Monockonok Island. His face, always sad and merciful, now bore an anxious expression. The patient sweetness of his mouth was a little disturbed. He was pondering over the hostile attitude threatened by the Indians against the whites, and that subject could not be otherwise than a painful one.
The hut was small, and but for recent repairs would have been in ruins. It consisted only of one room. A deal-box stood in one corner, filled with books and rolls of manuscript. Two stools and a rude table, with a few cooking utensils8, were the only remaining furniture. The missionary sat by the table, implements9 for writing were before him, and the pages of a worn Bible lay open, which, after a little while, he began to read.
It was a picture of holy thought and quiet study; but the crackling of branches and the sound of approaching footsteps interrupted its beautiful tranquillity11.
The silvery flow of water from a spring close by was broken by the sound; the birds fluttered away from their green nestling places in the leaves, and a half-tamed fawn12, which had been sleeping in a tuft of fern-leaves, started up, gazed a moment on the intruder with his dark, intelligent eye, and dashed up the river’s bank as she crossed the threshold of the lowly dwelling13.
The missionary looked up as the stranger entered, and a feeling of astonishment14 mingled15 with the graciousness which long habit had made a portion of his nature. He arose, and with a slight inclination17 of the head placed the stool, on which he had been sitting, for her accommodation.
The intruder bent18 her head in acknowledgment of the courtesy, but remained standing19. She was a woman majestic20 in her bearing, of well-developed form, and somewhat above the middle height; her air was courtly and graceful21, but dashed with haughtiness22 approaching to arrogance23. She had probably numbered forty years; 48her face, though slightly sunbrowned, bore traces of great beauty, in spite of its haughty24 expression. The mouth had been accustomed to smiles in its youth, and though an anxious frown clouded the broad forehead, it was still beautifully fair. The missionary had spent his life amid the aristocracy of European courts, and had passed from thence to the lowly settlement, and to the still more remote Indian encampment; but there was something in the appearance of this strange woman that filled him with vague uneasiness, and he looked upon her with a sort of terror. Her air and dress were not strictly25 those of any class with which he had as yet become familiar. There was wildness mingled with the majesty26 of her presence, and her rich and picturesque27 attire28 partook at once of the court and the wigwam.
Her long, golden, and still abundant hair was wreathed in braids around her head, and surmounted29 by a small coronet of gorgeous feathers. A serpent of fine, scaly30 gold, the neck and back striped and variegated31 with minute gems32, was wreathed about the mass of braids on one side of her head, and formed a knot of slender coils where it clasped the coronet. There was something startlingly like vitality33 in these writhing34 folds when the light struck them, and the jewelled head shot out from the feathers and quivered over the pale temple with startling abruptness35. There was an asp-like glitter in the sharp, emerald eye, and the tiny jaw36 seemed full of subtle venom37. It was a magnificent and rare ornament38 to be found in the solitude39 of an American forest; yet scarcely less remarkable40 than the remainder of the strange woman’s apparel.
A robe of scarlet41 cloth, bordered with the blackest lynx fur, was girded at the waist by a cord of twisted silk, and fell back at the shoulders in lapels of rich black velvet42. Above the fur border ran a wreath of embroidery43, partly silk, partly wampum, but most exquisitely44 wrought45 in garlands of mountain flowers, with 49tiny golden serpents knotting them together and creeping downward, as it were, to hide themselves in the fur. It had loose, hanging sleeves, likewise lined with velvet, beneath which the white and still rounded arm gleamed out in strong contrast.
A serpent, mate to the one on her head, but glowing with still more costly46 jewels, coiled around the graceful swell47 of her right arm, a little below the elbow, but its brilliancy was concealed48 by the drapery of the sleeve, except when the arm was in motion. She wore elaborately wrought moccasins lined with crimson49 cloth, but the embroidery was soiled with dew, and the silken thongs50 with which they had been laced to the ankle had broken loose in the rough path through which she had evidently travelled.
The missionary stood by the table, while his visitor cast a hasty glance around the apartment and turned her eyes keenly on his face.
“I am not mistaken,” she said, slowly withdrawing her gaze. “You are the godly man of whom our people speak—the Indian missionary?”
The man of God bent his head in reply.
“I am, madam.”
His voice was deep-toned and peculiarly sweet. The woman started as it met her ear; a gleam of unwonted expression shot over her features, and she fixed53 another penetrating54 glance on his face, as if some long-buried recollection had been aroused; then, satisfied with the scrutiny55, she turned her eyes away, and drawing a deep breath spoke56 again.
“I ask no more than this; of what church matters little. But have you authority to perform marriages after the established law?”
“I have; but my services are seldom required. I mingle16 but little with the whites of the settlement, and 50Indians have their peculiar52 forms, which, to them, are alone binding,”
“True,” replied the woman, with a slight wave of the hand; “these forms shall not be wanting; all the bonds of a Christian57 church and savage custom will scarcely yield me security.”
“Your services are needed in the Shawnee encampment a few miles back in the mountains. A guide shall be sent for you at the appointed time. Stay in this place during the next twenty-four hours, when you will be summoned.”
The missionary, though a humble59 man, was by no means wanting in the dignity of a Christian gentleman. He was displeased60 with the arrogant61 and commanding tone assumed by his singular visitor, and threw a slight degree of reproof62 into his manner when he answered.
“Lady, if the welfare of a human being—if the safety of an immortal63 soul can be secured by my presence, I will not hesitate to trust myself among your people, though they come here on an errand I can never approve; but for a less important matter I cannot promise to wait your pleasure.”
“Rash man! do you know who it is you are braving?” said the woman, fixing her eyes sternly on his face. “If your life is utterly64 valueless, delay but a moment in following the guide which I shall send, and you shall have the martyrdom you seem to brave! Catharine Montour’s will has never yet been disputed within twenty miles of her husband’s tent without frightful65 retribution.”
The missionary started at the mention of that name, but he speedily regained66 his composure, and answered her calmly and with firmness.
“Threats are powerless with me, lady. The man who places himself unarmed and defenceless in the midst of 51a horde67 of savages can scarcely be supposed to act against his conscience from the threat of a woman, however stern may be her heart, and however fearful her power. Tell me what the service is which I am required to perform, and then you shall have my answer.”
The haughty woman moved towards the door with an angry gesture, but returned again, and with more courtesy in her manner seated herself on the stool which had been placed for her.
“It is but just,” she said, “that you should know the service which you are required to perform. There is in the camp now lying beneath Campbell’s Ledge68 a maiden69 of mixed blood, my child—my only child; from the day that she first opened her eyes to mine in the solemn wilderness, with nothing but savage faces around me, with no heart to sympathize with mine, that child became a part of my own life. For years I had loved nothing; but the tenderness almost dead in my heart broke forth70 when she was born, the sweet feelings of humanity came back, and the infant became to me an idol71. In the wide world I had but one object to love, and for the first time in a weary life affection brought happiness to me. You may be a father; think of the child who has lain in your bosom72 year after year, pure and gentle as a spring blossom, who has wound herself around your heart-strings—think of her, when dearest and loveliest, stolen from your bosom, and her innocent thoughts usurped73 by another.”
“Forbear—in mercy forbear!” said the missionary, in a voice of agony that for an instant silenced the woman.
Catharine looked up and saw that his eyes were full of tears; her own face was fearfully agitated74, and she went on with a degree of energy but little in keeping with the pathos75 of her last broken speech.
“A white, one of my own race, came to the forest stealthily, like a thief, and with our Indian forms, which 52he taught her to believe were a bond of marriage among his people, also lured76 the heart of my child from her mother. Now, I beseech77 you, for I see that you are kind and feeling—I was wrong to command—come to the camp at nine to-night, for then and there shall my child be lawfully78 wedded79.”
“I will be there at the hour,” replied the missionary, in a voice of deep sympathy. “Heaven forbid that I should refuse to aid in righting the wronged, even at the peril of life.”
“My own head shall not be more sacred in the Shawnee camp than yours,” said Catharine, with energy.
“I do not doubt it; and were it otherwise I should not shrink from a duty. I owe an atonement for the evil opinion I had of you. A heart which feels dishonor so keenly cannot delight in carnage and blood.”
“Can they repeat these things of me?” inquired Catharine, with a painful smile; “they do me deep wrong. Fear not; I appear before you with clean hands. If the heart is less pure it has sufficiently80 avenged81 itself; if it has wronged others, they have retribution; has not the love of my child gone forth to another? Am I not alone?”
“Lady,” said the missionary, with deep commiseration82 in his look and voice, for he was moved by her energetic grief, “this is not the language of a savage. Your speech is refined, your manner noble. Lady, what are you?”
There are seasons when the heart will claim sympathy, spite of all control which a will of iron may place upon it. This power was upon the heart of Catharine Montour.
“Yes, I will speak,” she muttered, raising her hand and pressing it heavily to her eyes. The motion flung back the drapery of the sleeve, and the light flashed full on the jewelled serpent coiled around her arm. The missionary’s eyes fell upon it, and he sallied back 53against the logs of the hut, with a death-like agony in his face.
Catharine Montour was too deeply engrossed83 by her own feelings to observe the strange agitation84 which had so suddenly come upon the missionary. She seated herself on the stool, and with her face buried in her robe remained minute after minute in deep silence, gathering85 strength to unlock the tumultuous secrets of her heart once more to a mortal’s knowledge.
When she raised her face there was nothing in the appearance of her auditor86 to excite attention. He still leaned against the rude wall, a little paler than before, but otherwise betraying no emotion, save that which a good man might be supposed to feel in the presence of a sinful and highly gifted fellow-creature.
She caught his pitying and mournful look fixed so earnestly upon her face as she raised it from the folds of her robe, and her eyes wavered and sunk beneath its sorrowful intensity87. There was a yearning88 sympathy in his glance, which fell upon her heart like sunshine on the icy fetters89 of a rivulet90; it awed91 her proud spirit, and yet encouraged confidence; but it was not till after his mild voice had repeated the question—“Lady, confide92 in me; who and what are you?”—that she spoke.
When she did find voice it was sharp, and thrilled painfully on the ear of the listener. The question aroused a thousand recollections that had long slumbered93 in the life of this wretched woman. She writhed94 under it, as if a knot of scorpions95 had suddenly begun to uncoil in her heart.
“What am I? It is a useless question. Who on earth can tell what he is, or what a moment shall make him? I am that which fate has ordained for me: Catharine Montour, the wife of Gi-en-gwa-tah, a great chief among his people. If at any time I have known another character, it matters little. Why should you 54arouse remembrances which may not be forced back to their lethargy again? I ask no sympathy, nor seek counsel; let me depart in peace.”
With a sorrowful and deliberate motion she arose and would have left the cabin, but the missionary laid his hand gently on her arm and drew her back.
“We cannot part thus,” he said. “The sinful have need of counsel, the sorrowing of sympathy. The heart which has been long astray requires an intercessor with the Most High.”
“And does the God whom you serve suffer any human heart to become so depraved that it may not approach his footstool in its own behalf? Is the immaculate purity of Jehovah endangered by the petition of the sinful or the penitent96 that you offer to mediate97 between me and my Creator? No! if I have sinned, the penalty has been dearly paid. If I have sorrowed, the tears shed in solitude have fallen back on my own heart and frozen there! I ask not intercession with the being you worship; and I myself lack the faith which might avail me, were I weak enough to repine over the irredeemable past. I have no hope, no God—wherefore should I pray?”
“This hardiness98 and impiety99 is unreal. There is a God, and despite of your haughty will and daring intellect you believe in him; aye, at this moment, when there is denial on your lips!”
“Believe—aye, as the devils, perchance; but I do not tremble!” replied the daring woman, with an air and voice of defiance100.
The missionary fixed his eyes with stern and reproving steadiness on the impious woman. She did not shrink from his glance, but stood up, her eyes braving his with a forced determination, her brow locked in defiance beneath its gorgeous coronet, and a smile of scornful bitterness writhing her mouth. Her arms were folded over her bosom, flushed by the reflection 55of her robe, and the jewelled serpent glittered just over her heart, as if to guard it from all good influences. She seemed like a beautiful and rebellious101 spirit thrust out forever from the sanctuary102 of heaven.
A man less deeply read in the human heart, or less persevering103 in his Christian charities, would have turned away and left her, as one utterly irreclaimable, but the missionary was both too wise and too good thus to relinquish104 the influence he had gained. There was something artificial in the daring front and reckless impiety of the being before him, which betrayed a strange, but not uncommon105, desire to be supposed worse than she really was.
With the ready tact106 of a man who has made character a study, he saw that words of reproof or authority were unlikely to soften107 a heart so stern in its mental pride, and his own kind feelings taught him the method of reaching hers. This keen desire to learn something of her secret history would have been surprising in a man of less comprehensive benevolence108, and even in him there was a restless anxiety of manner but little in accordance with his usual quiet demeanor109. His voice was like the breaking up of a fountain when he spoke again.
“Catharine,” he said.
She started at the name—her arms dropped—she looked wildly in his eyes:
“Oh! I mentioned the name,” she muttered, refolding her arms and drawing a deep breath.
“Catharine Montour, this hardihood is unreal; you are not thus unbelieving. Has the sweet trustfulness of your childhood departed forever? Have you no thought of those hours when the young heart is made up of faith and dependence—when prayer and helpless love break out from the soul, naturally as moisture exhales110 when the sun touches it? Nay,” he continued, with more powerful earnestness, as he saw her eyes 56waver and grow dim beneath the influence of his voice, “resist not the good spirit, which even now is hovering111 about your heart, as the ring-dove broods over its desolated112 nest. Hoarded113 thoughts of evil beget114 evil. Open your heart to confidence and counsel. Confide in one who never yet betrayed trust—one who is no stranger to sorrow, and who is too frail115 himself to lack charity for the sins of others. I beseech you to tell me, are you not of English birth?”
Tears, large and mournful tears, stood in Catharine Montour’s eyes. She was once more subdued116 and humble as an infant. A golden chord had been touched in her memory, and every heart-string vibrated to the music of other years. She sat down and opened her history to that strange man abruptly, and as one under the influence of a dream.
“Yes, I was born in England,” she said; “born in a place so beautiful that any human being might be happy from the mere117 influence of its verdant118 and tranquil10 quietness. No traveller ever passed through that village without stopping to admire its verdant and secluded119 tranquillity. Back from the church stood the parsonage, an irregular old building, surrounded by a grove120 of magnificent oaks, through which its pointed6 roof and tall chimneys alone could be seen from the village. A tribe of rooks dwelt in the oaks, and a whole bevy121 of wrens122 came and built their nests in the vines. With my earliest recollection comes the soft chirp123 of the nestlings under my window, and the carolling song which broke up from the larks124 when they left the long grass in the graveyard125, where they nested during the summer nights.
“My father was rector of the parish, the younger son of a noble family. He had a small, independent fortune, which allowed him to distribute the income from his living among the poor of the village. My mother was a gentle creature, of refined and delicate, but not 57comprehensive, mind. She loved my father, and next to him, or rather as a portion of himself, me. As a child, I was passionate126 and wayward, but warm of heart, forgiving and generous. My spirit brooked127 no control; but my indulgent father and sweet mother could see nothing more dangerous than a quick intellect and over-abundant healthfulness in the capricious tyranny of my disposition128. I was passionately129 fond of my mother, and when she sometimes stole to my bedside and hushed me to sleep with her soft kisses and pleasant voice I would promise in my innermost heart never to grieve her again; yet the next day I experienced a kind of pleasure in bringing the tears to her gentle eyes by some wayward expression of obstinacy130 or dislike.”
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1
missionary
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| adj.教会的，传教(士)的；n.传教士 | |
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paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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3
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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savages
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| 未开化的人，野蛮人( savage的名词复数 ) | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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utensils
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| 器具，用具，器皿( utensil的名词复数 )； 器物 | |
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implements
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| n.工具( implement的名词复数 )；家具；手段；[法律]履行（契约等）v.实现( implement的第三人称单数 )；执行；贯彻；使生效 | |
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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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fawn
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| n.未满周岁的小鹿；v.巴结，奉承 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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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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mingle
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| vt.使混合，使相混；vi.混合起来；相交往 | |
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inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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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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majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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haughtiness
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| n.傲慢；傲气 | |
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arrogance
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| n.傲慢，自大 | |
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haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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surmounted
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| 战胜( surmount的过去式和过去分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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scaly
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| adj.鱼鳞状的；干燥粗糙的 | |
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variegated
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| adj.斑驳的，杂色的 | |
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gems
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| growth； economy； management； and customer satisfaction 增长 | |
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vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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writhing
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的现在分词 ) | |
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abruptness
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| n. 突然，唐突 | |
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jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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venom
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| n.毒液，恶毒，痛恨 | |
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ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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embroidery
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| n.绣花，刺绣；绣制品 | |
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44
exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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45
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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50
thongs
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| 的东西 | |
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51
ordained
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| v.任命（某人）为牧师( ordain的过去式和过去分词 )；授予（某人）圣职；（上帝、法律等）命令；判定 | |
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52
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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53
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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54
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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55
scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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56
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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57
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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58
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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59
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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60
displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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61
arrogant
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的 | |
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62
reproof
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| n.斥责，责备 | |
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63
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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64
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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65
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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66
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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67
horde
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| n.群众，一大群 | |
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68
ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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71
idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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72
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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73
usurped
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| 篡夺，霸占( usurp的过去式和过去分词 )； 盗用； 篡夺，篡权 | |
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74
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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75
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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76
lured
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| 吸引，引诱（lure的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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77
beseech
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| v.祈求，恳求 | |
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lawfully
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| adv.守法地，合法地；合理地 | |
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wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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81
avenged
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| v.为…复仇，报…之仇( avenge的过去式和过去分词 )；为…报复 | |
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82
commiseration
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| n.怜悯，同情 | |
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83
engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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84
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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85
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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86
auditor
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| n.审计员，旁听着 | |
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87
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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fetters
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| n.脚镣( fetter的名词复数 )；束缚v.给…上脚镣，束缚( fetter的第三人称单数 ) | |
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rivulet
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| n.小溪，小河 | |
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91
awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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slumbered
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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writhed
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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95
scorpions
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| n.蝎子( scorpion的名词复数 ) | |
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96
penitent
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| adj.后悔的；n.后悔者；忏悔者 | |
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mediate
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| vi.调解，斡旋；vt.经调解解决；经斡旋促成 | |
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98
hardiness
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| n.耐劳性，强壮；勇气，胆子 | |
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99
impiety
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| n.不敬；不孝 | |
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100
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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101
rebellious
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| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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102
sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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103
persevering
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| a.坚忍不拔的 | |
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104
relinquish
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| v.放弃，撤回，让与，放手 | |
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105
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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106
tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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107
soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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108
benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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109
demeanor
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| n.行为；风度 | |
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110
exhales
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| v.呼出，发散出( exhale的第三人称单数 )；吐出（肺中的空气、烟等），呼气 | |
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111
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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112
desolated
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| adj.荒凉的，荒废的 | |
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113
hoarded
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| v.积蓄并储藏（某物）( hoard的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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114
beget
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| v.引起；产生 | |
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115
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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116
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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117
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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118
verdant
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| adj.翠绿的，青翠的，生疏的，不老练的 | |
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119
secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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120
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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121
bevy
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| n.一群 | |
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122
wrens
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| n.鹪鹩( wren的名词复数 ) | |
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123
chirp
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| v.(尤指鸟)唧唧喳喳的叫 | |
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124
larks
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| n.百灵科鸟（尤指云雀）( lark的名词复数 )；一大早就起床；鸡鸣即起；（因太费力而不想干时说）算了v.百灵科鸟（尤指云雀）( lark的第三人称单数 )；一大早就起床；鸡鸣即起；（因太费力而不想干时说）算了 | |
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125
graveyard
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| n.坟场 | |
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126
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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127
brooked
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| 容忍，忍受（brook的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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128
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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129
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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130
obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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