The next week passed over at Barchester with much apparent tranquillity2. The hearts, however, of some of the inhabitants were not so tranquil1 as the streets of the city. The poor old dean still continued to live, just as Sir Omicron Pie had prophesied3 that he would do, much to the amazement4, and some thought disgust, of Dr. Fillgrave. The bishop5 still remained away. He had stayed a day or two in town and had also remained longer at the archbishop’s than he had intended. Mr. Slope had as yet received no line in answer to either of his letters, but he had learnt the cause of this. Sir Nicholas was stalking a deer, or attending the Queen, in the Highlands, and even the indefatigable6 Mr. Towers had stolen an autumn holiday and had made one of the yearly tribe who now ascend7 Mont Blanc. Mr. Slope learnt that he was not expected back till the last day of September.
Mrs. Bold was thrown much with the Stanhopes, of whom she became fonder and fonder. If asked, she would have said that Charlotte Stanhope was her especial friend, and so she would have thought. But, to tell the truth, she liked Bertie nearly as well; she had no more idea of regarding him as a lover than she would have had of looking at a big tame dog in such a light. Bertie had become very intimate with her, and made little speeches to her, and said little things of a sort very different from the speeches and sayings of other men. But then this was almost always done before his sisters, and he, with his long silken beard, his light blue eyes, and strange dress, was so unlike other men. She admitted him to a kind of familiarity which she had never known with anyone else and of which she by no means understood the danger. She blushed once at finding that she had called him Bertie and, on the same day, only barely remembered her position in time to check herself from playing upon him some personal practical joke to which she was instigated8 by Charlotte.
In all this Eleanor was perfectly9 innocent, and Bertie Stanhope could hardly be called guilty. But every familiarity into which Eleanor was entrapped10 was deliberately12 planned by his sister. She knew well how to play her game and played it without mercy; she knew, none so well, what was her brother’s character, and she would have handed over to him the young widow, and the young widow’s money, and the money of the widow’s child, without remorse13. With her pretended friendship and warm cordiality, she strove to connect Eleanor so closely with her brother as to make it impossible that she should go back even if she wished it. But Charlotte Stanhope knew really nothing of Eleanor’s character, did not even understand that there were such characters. She did not comprehend that a young and pretty woman could be playful and familiar with a man such as Bertie Stanhope and yet have no idea in her head, no feeling in her heart, that she would have been ashamed to own to all the world. Charlotte Stanhope did not in the least conceive that her new friend was a woman whom nothing could entrap11 into an inconsiderate marriage, whose mind would have revolted from the slightest impropriety had she been aware that any impropriety existed.
Miss Stanhope, however, had tact15 enough to make herself and her father’s house very agreeable to Mrs. Bold. There was with them all an absence of stiffness and formality which was peculiarly agreeable to Eleanor after the great dose of clerical arrogance16 which she had lately been constrained17 to take. She played chess with them, walked with them, and drank tea with them; studied or pretended to study astronomy; assisted them in writing stories in rhyme, in turning prose tragedy into comic verse, or comic stories into would-be tragic18 poetry. She had no idea before that she had any such talents. She had not conceived the possibility of her doing such things as she now did. She found with the Stanhopes new amusements and employments, new pursuits, which in themselves could not be wrong and which were exceedingly alluring19.
Is it not a pity that people who are bright and clever should so often be exceedingly improper20, and that those who are never improper should so often be dull and heavy? Now Charlotte Stanhope was always bright and never heavy, but then her propriety14 was doubtful.
But during all this time Eleanor by no means forgot Mr. Arabin, nor did she forget Mr. Slope. She had parted from Mr. Arabin in her anger. She was still angry at what she regarded as his impertinent interference, but nevertheless she looked forward to meeting him again and also looked forward to forgiving him. The words that Mr. Arabin had uttered still sounded in her ears. She knew that if not intended for a declaration of love, they did signify that he loved her, and she felt also that if he ever did make such a declaration, it might be that she should not receive it unkindly. She was still angry with him, very angry with him; so angry that she would bite her lip and stamp her foot as she thought of what he had said and done. Nevertheless, she yearned21 to let him know that he was forgiven; all that she required was that he should own that he had sinned.
She was to meet him at Ullathorne on the last day of the present month. Miss Thorne had invited all the country round to a breakfast on the lawn. There were to be tents, and archery, and dancing for the ladies on the lawn and for the swains and girls in the paddock. There were to be fiddlers and fifers, races for the boys, poles to be climbed, ditches full of water to be jumped over, horse-collars to be grinned through (this latter amusement was an addition of the stewards22, and not arranged by Miss Thorne in the original programme), and every game to be played which, in a long course of reading, Miss Thorne could ascertain23 to have been played in the good days of Queen Elizabeth. Everything of more modern growth was to be tabooed, if possible. On one subject Miss Thorne was very unhappy. She had been turning in her mind the matter of a bull-ring, but could not succeed in making anything of it. She would not for the world have done, or allowed to be done, anything that was cruel; as to the promoting the torture of a bull for the amusement of her young neighbours, it need hardly be said that Miss Thorne would be the last to think of it. And yet there was something so charming in the name. A bull-ring, however, without a bull would only be a memento24 of the decadence25 of the times, and she felt herself constrained to abandon the idea. Quintains, however, she was determined26 to have, and had poles and swivels and bags of flour prepared accordingly. She would no doubt have been anxious for something small in the way of a tournament, but, as she said to her brother, that had been tried, and the age had proved itself too decidedly inferior to its forerunners27 to admit of such a pastime. Mr. Thorne did not seem to participate much in her regret, feeling perhaps that a full suit of chain-armour would have added but little to his own personal comfort.
This party at Ullathorne had been planned in the first place as a sort of welcoming to Mr. Arabin on his entrance into St. Ewold’s parsonage; an intended harvest-home gala for the labourers and their wives and children had subsequently been amalgamated28 with it, and thus it had grown to its present dimensions. All the Plumstead party had of course been asked, and at the time of the invitation Eleanor had intended to have gone with her sister. Now her plans were altered, and she was going with the Stanhopes. The Proudies were also to be there, and, as Mr. Slope had not been included in the invitation to the palace, the signora, whose impudence29 never deserted30 her, asked permission of Miss Thorne to bring him.
This permission Miss Thorne gave, having no other alternative, but she did so with a trembling heart, fearing Mr. Arabin would be offended. Immediately on his return she apologized, almost with tears, so dire31 an enmity was presumed to rage between the two gentlemen. But Mr. Arabin comforted her by an assurance that he should meet Mr. Slope with the greatest pleasure imaginable and made her promise that she would introduce them to each other.
But this triumph of Mr. Slope’s was not so agreeable to Eleanor, who since her return to Barchester had done her best to avoid him. She would not give way to the Plumstead folk when they so ungenerously accused her of being in love with this odious32 man, but, nevertheless, knowing that she was so accused, she was fully33 alive to the expediency34 of keeping out of his way and dropping him by degrees. She had seen very little of him since her return. Her servant had been instructed to say to all visitors that she was out. She could not bring herself to specify35 Mr. Slope particularly, and in order to avoid him she had thus debarred herself from all her friends. She had excepted Charlotte Stanhope and, by degrees, a few others also. Once she had met him at the Stanhopes’, but as a rule, Mr. Slope’s visits there were made in the morning and hers in the evening. On that one occasion Charlotte had managed to preserve her from any annoyance36. This was very good-natured on the part of Charlotte, as Eleanor thought, and also very sharp-witted, as Eleanor had told her friend nothing of her reasons for wishing to avoid that gentleman. The fact, however, was that Charlotte had learnt from her sister that Mr. Slope would probably put himself forward as a suitor for the widow’s hand, and she was consequently sufficiently37 alive to the expediency of guarding Bertie’s future wife from any danger in that quarter.
Nevertheless the Stanhopes were pledged to take Mr. Slope with them to Ullathorne. An arrangement was therefore necessarily made, which was very disagreeable to Eleanor. Dr. Stanhope, with herself, Charlotte, and Mr. Slope, were to go together, and Bertie was to follow with his sister Madeline. It was clearly visible by Eleanor’s face that this assortment38 was very disagreeable to her, and Charlotte, who was much encouraged thereby39 in her own little plan, made a thousand apologies.
“I see you don’t like it, my dear,” said she, “but we could not manage otherwise. Bertie would give his eyes to go with you, but Madeline cannot possibly go without him. Nor could we possibly put Mr. Slope and Madeline in the same carriage without anyone else. They’d both be ruined forever, you know, and not admitted inside Ullathorne gates, I should imagine, after such an impropriety.”
“Of course that wouldn’t do,” said Eleanor, “but couldn’t I go in the carriage with the signora and your brother?”
“Impossible!” said Charlotte. “When she is there, there is only room for two.” The Signora, in truth, did not care to do her travelling in the presence of strangers.
“Well, then,” said Eleanor, “you are all so kind, Charlotte, and so good to me that I am sure you won’t be offended, but I think I’ll not go at all.”
“Not go at all!— what nonsense!— indeed you shall.” It had been absolutely determined in family counsel that Bertie should propose on that very occasion.
“Or I can take a fly,” said Eleanor. “You know I am not embarrassed by so many difficulties as you young ladies; I can go alone.”
“Nonsense, my dear! Don’t think of such a thing; after all, it is only for an hour or so; and, to tell the truth, I don’t know what it is you dislike so. I thought you and Mr. Slope were great friends. What is it you dislike?”
“Oh, nothing particular,” said Eleanor; “only I thought it would be a family party.”
“Of course it would be much nicer, much more snug40, if Bertie could go with us. It is he that is badly treated. I can assure you he is much more afraid of Mr. Slope than you are. But you see Madeline cannot go out without him — and she, poor creature, goes out so seldom! I am sure you don’t begrudge41 her this, though her vagary42 does knock about our own party a little.”
Of course Eleanor made a thousand protestations and uttered a thousand hopes that Madeline would enjoy herself. And of course she had to give way and undertake to go in the carriage with Mr. Slope. In fact, she was driven either to do this or to explain why she would not do so. Now she could not bring herself to explain to Charlotte Stanhope all that had passed at Plumstead.
But it was to her a sore necessity. She thought of a thousand little schemes for avoiding it; she would plead illness and not go at all; she would persuade Mary Bold to go, although not asked, and then make a necessity of having a carriage of her own to take her sister-inlaw; anything, in fact, she could do, rather than be seen by Mr. Arabin getting out of the same carriage with Mr. Slope. However, when the momentous43 morning came, she had no scheme matured, and then Mr. Slope handed her into Dr. Stanhope’s carriage and, following her steps, sat opposite to her.
The bishop returned on the eve of the Ullathorne party, and was received at home with radiant smiles by the partner of all his cares. On his arrival he crept up to his dressing-room with somewhat of a palpitating heart; he had overstayed his alloted time by three days, and was not without much fear of penalties. Nothing, however, could be more affectionately cordial than the greeting he received; the girls came out and kissed him in a manner that was quite soothing44 to his spirit; and Mrs. Proudie, “albeit, unused to the melting mood,” squeezed him in her arms and almost in words called him her dear, darling, good, pet, little bishop. All this was a very pleasant surprise.
Mrs. Proudie had somewhat changed her tactics; not that she had seen any cause to disapprove45 of her former line of conduct, but she had now brought matters to such a point that she calculated that she might safely do so. She had got the better of Mr. Slope, and she now thought well to show her husband that when allowed to get the better of everybody, when obeyed by him and permitted to rule over others, she would take care that he should have his reward. Mr. Slope had not a chance against her; not only could she stun46 the poor bishop by her midnight anger, but she could assuage47 and soothe48 him, if she so willed, by daily indulgences. She could furnish his room for him, turn him out as smart a bishop as any on the bench, give him good dinners, warm fires, and an easy life — all this she would do if he would but be quietly obedient. But, if not,—! To speak sooth, however, his sufferings on that dreadful night had been so poignant49 as to leave him little spirit for further rebellion.
As soon as he had dressed himself, she returned to his room. “I hope you enjoyed yourself at ——,” said she, seating herself on one side of the fire while he remained in his armchair on the other, stroking the calves50 of his legs. It was the first time he had had a fire in his room since the summer, and it pleased him, for the good bishop loved to be warm and cosy51. Yes, he said, he had enjoyed himself very much. Nothing could be more polite than the archbishop, and Mrs. Archbishop had been equally charming.
Mrs. Proudie was delighted to hear it; nothing, she declared, pleased her so much as to think
Her bairn respectit like the lave.
She did not put it precisely52 in these words, but what she said came to the same thing; and then, having petted and fondled her little man sufficiently, she proceeded to business.
“The poor dean is still alive,” said she.
“So I hear, so I hear,” said the bishop. “I’ll go to the deanery directly after breakfast tomorrow.”
“We are going to this party at Ullathorne tomorrow morning, my dear; we must be there early, you know — by twelve o’clock I suppose.”
“Oh — ah!” said the bishop; “then I’ll certainly call the next day.”
“Was much said about it at ——?” asked Mrs. Proudie.
“About what?” said the bishop.
“Filling up the dean’s place,” said Mrs. Proudie. As she spoke53, a spark of the wonted fire returned to her eye, and the bishop felt himself to be a little less comfortable than before.
“Filling up the dean’s place; that is, if the dean dies? Very little, my dear. It was mentioned, just mentioned.”
“And what did you say about it, Bishop?”
“Why, I said that I thought that if, that is, should — should the dean die, that is, I said I thought —” As he went on stammering54 and floundering, he saw that his wife’s eye was fixed55 sternly on him. Why should he encounter such evil for a man whom he loved so slightly as Mr. Slope? Why should he give up his enjoyments56 and his ease and such dignity as might be allowed to him to fight a losing battle for a chaplain? The chaplain, after all, if successful, would be as great a tyrant57 as his wife. Why fight at all? Why contend? Why be uneasy? From that moment he determined to fling Mr. Slope to the winds and take the goods the gods provided.
“I am told,” said Mrs. Proudie, speaking very slowly, “that Mr. Slope is looking to be the new dean.”
“Yes — certainly, I believe he is,” said the bishop.
“And what does the archbishop say about that?” asked Mrs. Proudie.
“Well, my dear, to tell the truth, I promised Mr. Slope to speak to the archbishop. Mr. Slope spoke to me about it. It is very arrogant58 of him, I must say — but that is nothing to me.”
“Arrogant!” said Mrs. Proudie; “it is the most impudent59 piece of pretension60 I ever heard of in my life. Mr. Slope Dean of Barchester, indeed! And what did you do in the matter, Bishop?”
“Why, my dear, I did speak to the archbishop.”
“You don’t mean to tell me,” said Mrs. Proudie, “that you are going to make yourself ridiculous by lending your name to such a preposterous61 attempt as this? Mr. Slope Dean of Barchester, indeed!” And she tossed her head and put her arms akimbo with an air of confident defiance62 that made her husband quite sure that Mr. Slope never would be Dean of Barchester. In truth, Mrs. Proudie was all but invincible63; had she married Petruchio, it may be doubted whether that arch wife-tamer would have been able to keep her legs out of those garments which are presumed by men to be peculiarly unfitted for feminine use.
“It is preposterous, my dear.”
“Then why have you endeavoured to assist him?”
“Why — my dear, I haven’t assisted him — much.”
“But why have you done it at all? Why have you mixed your name up in anything so ridiculous? What was it you did say to the archbishop?”
“Why, I just did mention it; I just did say that — that in the event of the poor dean’s death, Mr. Slope would — would —”
“Would what?”
“I forget how I put it — would take it if he could get it, something of that sort. I didn’t say much more than that.”
“You shouldn’t have said anything at all. And what did the archbishop say?”
“He didn’t say anything; he just bowed and rubbed his hands. Somebody else came up at the moment, and as we were discussing the new parochial universal school committee, the matter of the new dean dropped; after that I didn’t think it wise to renew it.”
“Renew it! I am very sorry you ever mentioned it. What will the archbishop think of you?”
“You may be sure, my dear, the archbishop thought very little about it.”
“But why did you think about it, Bishop? How could you think of making such a creature as that Dean of Barchester? Dean of Barchester! I suppose he’ll be looking for a bishopric some of these days — a man that hardly knows who his own father was; a man that I found without bread to his mouth or a coat to his back. Dean of Barchester, indeed! I’ll dean him.”
Mrs. Proudie considered herself to be in politics a pure Whig; all her family belonged to the Whig party. Now, among all ranks of Englishmen and Englishwomen (Mrs. Proudie should, I think, be ranked among the former on the score of her great strength of mind), no one is so hostile to lowly born pretenders to high station as the pure Whig.
The bishop thought it necessary to exculpate64 himself. “Why, my dear,” said he, “it appeared to me that you and Mr. Slope did not get on quite so well as you used to do!”
“Get on!” said Mrs. Proudie, moving her foot uneasily on the hearth-rug and compressing her lips in a manner that betokened65 much danger to the subject of their discourse66.
“I began to find that he was objectionable to you”— Mrs. Proudie’s foot worked on the hearth-rug with great rapidity —“and that you would be more comfortable if he was out of the palace”— Mrs. Proudie smiled, as a hyena67 may probably smile before he begins his laugh — “and therefore I thought that if he got this place, and so ceased to be my chaplain, you might be pleased at such an arrangement.”
And then the hyena laughed out. Pleased at such an arrangement! Pleased at having her enemy converted into a dean with twelve hundred a year! Medea, when she describes the customs of her native country (I am quoting from Robson’s edition), assures her astonished auditor68 that in her land captives, when taken, are eaten.
“You pardon them?” says Medea.
“We do indeed,” says the mild Grecian.
“We eat them!” says she of Colchis, with terrific energy.
Mrs. Proudie was the Medea of Barchester; she had no idea of not eating Mr. Slope. Pardon him! Merely get rid of him! Make a dean of him! It was not so they did with their captives in her country, among people of her sort! Mr. Slope had no such mercy to expect; she would pick him to the very last bone.
“Oh, yes, my dear, of course he’ll cease to be your chaplain,” said she. “After what has passed, that must be a matter of course. I couldn’t for a moment think of living in the same house with such a man. Besides, he has shown himself quite unfit for such a situation; making broils69 and quarrels among the clergy70; getting you, my dear, into scrapes; and taking upon himself as though he were as good as bishop himself. Of course he’ll go. But because he leaves the palace, that is no reason why he should get into the deanery.”
“Oh, of course not!” said the bishop; “but to save appearances, you know, my dear —”
“I don’t want to save appearances; I want Mr. Slope to appear just what he is — a false, designing, mean, intriguing71 man. I have my eye on him; he little knows what I see. He is misconducting himself in the most disgraceful way with that lame72 Italian woman. That family is a disgrace to Barchester, and Mr. Slope is a disgrace to Barchester. If he doesn’t look well to it, he’ll have his gown stripped off his back instead of having a dean’s hat on his head. Dean, indeed! The man has gone mad with arrogance.”
The bishop said nothing further to excuse either himself or his chaplain, and having shown himself passive and docile73, was again taken into favour. They soon went to dinner, and he spent the pleasantest evening he had had in his own house for a long time. His daughter played and sang to him as he sipped74 his coffee and read his newspaper, and Mrs. Proudie asked good-natured little questions about the archbishop; and then he went happily to bed and slept as quietly as though Mrs. Proudie had been Griselda herself. While shaving himself in the morning and preparing for the festivities of Ullathorne, he fully resolved to run no more tilts75 against a warrior76 so fully armed at all points as was Mrs. Proudie.
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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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prophesied
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| v.预告，预言( prophesy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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indefatigable
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| adj.不知疲倦的，不屈不挠的 | |
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ascend
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| vi.渐渐上升，升高；vt.攀登，登上 | |
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instigated
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| v.使（某事物）开始或发生，鼓动( instigate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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entrapped
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| v.使陷入圈套，使入陷阱( entrap的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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entrap
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| v.以网或陷阱捕捉，使陷入圈套 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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arrogance
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| n.傲慢，自大 | |
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constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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alluring
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| adj.吸引人的，迷人的 | |
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improper
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| adj.不适当的，不合适的，不正确的，不合礼仪的 | |
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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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stewards
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| （轮船、飞机等的）乘务员( steward的名词复数 )； （俱乐部、旅馆、工会等的）管理员； （大型活动的）组织者； （私人家中的）管家 | |
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ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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memento
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| n.纪念品，令人回忆的东西 | |
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decadence
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| n.衰落，颓废 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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forerunners
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| n.先驱( forerunner的名词复数 )；开路人；先兆；前兆 | |
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amalgamated
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| v.（使）（金属）汞齐化( amalgamate的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）合并；联合；结合 | |
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impudence
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| n.厚颜无耻；冒失；无礼 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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dire
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| adj.可怕的，悲惨的，阴惨的，极端的 | |
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odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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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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expediency
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| n.适宜；方便；合算；利己 | |
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specify
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| vt.指定，详细说明 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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assortment
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| n.分类，各色俱备之物，聚集 | |
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thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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begrudge
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| vt.吝啬，羡慕 | |
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vagary
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| n.妄想，不可测之事，异想天开 | |
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momentous
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| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
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soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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disapprove
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| v.不赞成，不同意，不批准 | |
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stun
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| vt.打昏，使昏迷，使震惊，使惊叹 | |
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assuage
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| v.缓和，减轻，镇定 | |
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soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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calves
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| n.(calf的复数)笨拙的男子，腓；腿肚子( calf的名词复数 )；牛犊；腓；小腿肚v.生小牛( calve的第三人称单数 )；（冰川）崩解；生（小牛等），产（犊）；使（冰川）崩解 | |
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cosy
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| adj.温暖而舒适的，安逸的 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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53
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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54
stammering
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的现在分词 ) | |
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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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enjoyments
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| 愉快( enjoyment的名词复数 )； 令人愉快的事物； 享有； 享受 | |
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tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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arrogant
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的 | |
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impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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pretension
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| n.要求；自命，自称；自负 | |
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preposterous
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| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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invincible
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| adj.不可征服的，难以制服的 | |
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exculpate
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| v.开脱，使无罪 | |
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betokened
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| v.预示，表示( betoken的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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hyena
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| n.土狼，鬣狗 | |
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auditor
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| n.审计员，旁听着 | |
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broils
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| v.（用火）烤（焙、炙等）( broil的第三人称单数 )；使卷入争吵；使混乱；被烤（或炙） | |
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clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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intriguing
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| adj.有趣的；迷人的v.搞阴谋诡计(intrigue的现在分词)；激起…的好奇心 | |
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lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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docile
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| adj.驯服的，易控制的，容易教的 | |
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sipped
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tilts
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| （意欲赢得某物或战胜某人的）企图，尝试( tilt的名词复数 ) | |
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warrior
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| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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