Whose mind’s so marbled, and his heart so hard,
That would not, when this huge mishap1 was heard,
To th’ utmost note of sorrow set their song,
To see a gallant2, with so great a grace,
So suddenly unthought on, so o’erthrown,
And so to perish, in so poor a place,
By too rash riding in a ground unknown!
POEM, IN NISBET’S Heraldry, vol. ii.
WE have anticipated the course of time to mention Bucklaw’s recovery and fate, that we might not interrupt the detail of events which succeeded the funeral of the unfortunate Lucy Ashton. This melancholy5 ceremony was performed in the misty6 dawn of an autumnal morning, with such moderate attendance and ceremony as could not possibly be dispensed7 with. A very few of the nearest relations attended her body to the same churchyard to which she had so lately been led as a bride, with as little free will, perhaps, as could be now testified by her lifeless and passive remains8. An aisle9 adjacent to the church had been fitted up by Sir William Ashton as a family cemetery10; and here, in a coffin11 bearing neither name nor date, were consigned12 to dust the remains of what was once lovely, beautiful, and innocent, though exasperated13 to frenzy14 by a long tract15 of unremitting persecution16.
While the mourners were busy in the vault17, the three village hags, who, notwithstanding the unwonted earliness of the hour, had snuffed the carrion19 like vultures, were seated on the “through-stane,” and engaged in their wonted unhallowed conference.
“Did not I say,” said Dame20 Gourlay, “that the braw bridal would be followed by as braw a funeral?”
“I think,” answered Dame Winnie, “there’s little bravery at it: neither meat nor drink, and just a wheen silver tippences to the poor folk; it was little worth while to come sae far a road for sae sma’ profit, and us sae frail21.”
“Out, wretch22!” replied Dame Gourlay, “can a’ the dainties they could gie us be half sae sweet as this hour’s vengeance23? There they are that were capering24 on their prancing25 nags26 four days since, and they are now ganging as dreigh and sober as oursells the day. They were a’ glistening27 wi’ gowd and silver; they’re now as black as the crook28. And Miss Lucy Ashton, that grudged29 when an honest woman came near her — a taid may sit on her coffin that day, and she can never scunner when he croaks30. And Lady Ashton has hell-fire burning in her breast by this time; and Sir William, wi’ his gibbets, and his faggots, and his chains, how likes he the witcheries of his ain dwelling-house?”
“And is it true, then,” mumbled31 the paralytic32 wretch, “that the bride was trailed out of her bed and up the chimly by evil spirits, and that the bridegroom’s face was wrung33 round ahint him?”
“Ye needna care wha did it, or how it was done,” said Aislie Gourlay; “but I’ll uphaud it for nae stickit job, and that the lairds and leddies ken34 weel this day.”
“And was it true,” said Annie Winnie, “sin ye ken sae muckle about it, that the picture of auld35 Sir Malise Ravenswood came down on the ha’ floor, and led out the brawl37 before them a’?”
“Na,” said Ailsie; “but into the ha’ came the picture — and I ken weel how it came there — to gie them a warning that pride wad get a fa’. But there’s as queer a ploy38, cummers, as ony o’ thae, that’s gaun on even now in the burial vault yonder: ye saw twall mourners, wi’ crape and cloak, gang down the steps pair and pair!”
“What should ail4 us to see them?” said the one old woman.
“I counted them,” said the other, with the eagerness of a person to whom the spectacle had afforded too much interest to be viewed with indifference39.
“But ye did not see,” said Ailsie, exulting40 in her superior observation, “that there’s a thirteenth amang them that they ken naething about; and, if auld freits say true, there’s ane o’ that company that’ll no be lang for this warld. But come awa’ cummers; if we bide41 here, I’se warrant we get the wyte o’ whatever ill comes of it, and that gude will come of it nane o’ them need ever think to see.”
And thus, croaking42 like the ravens36 when they anticipate pestilence43, the ill-boding sibyls withdrew from the churchyard.
In fact, the mourners, when the service of interment was ended, discovered that there was among them one more than the invited number, and the remark was communicated in whispers to each other. The suspicion fell upon a figure which, muffled44 in the same deep mourning with the others, was reclined, almost in a state of insensibility, against one of the pillars of the sepulchral45 vault. The relatives of the Ashton family were expressing in whispers their surprise and displeasure at the intrusion, when they were interrupted by Colonel Ashton, who, in his father’s absence, acted as principal mourner. “I know,” he said in a whisper, “who this person is, he has, or shall soon have, as deep cause of mourning as ourselves; leave me to deal with him, and do not disturb the ceremony by unnecessary exposure.” So saying, he separated himself from the group of his relations, and taking the unknown mourner by the cloak, he said to him, in a tone of suppressed emotion, “Follow me.”
The stranger, as if starting from a trance at the sound of his voice, mechanically obeyed, and they ascended46 the broken ruinous stair which led from the sepulchre into the churchyard. The other mourners followed, but remained grouped together at the door of the vault, watching with anxiety the motions of Colonel Ashton and the stranger, who now appeared to be in close conference beneath the shade of a yew-tree, in the most remote part of the burial-ground.
To this sequestered47 spot Colonel Ashton had guided the stranger, and then turning round, addressed him in a stern and composed tone.—“I cannot doubt that I speak to the Master of Ravenswood?” No answer was returned. “I cannot doubt,” resumed the Colonel, trembling with rising passion, “that I speak to the murderer of my sister!”
“You have named me but too truly,” said Ravenswood, in a hollow and tremulous voice.
“If you repent48 what you have done,” said the Colonel, “may your penitence49 avail you before God; with me it shall serve you nothing. Here,” he said, giving a paper, “is the measure of my sword, and a memorandum50 of the time and place of meeting. Sunrise tomorrow morning, on the links to the east of Wolf’s Hope.”
The Master of Ravenswood held the paper in his hand, and seemed irresolute51. At length he spoke52 —“Do not,” he said, “urge to farther desperation a wretch who is already desperate. Enjoy your life while you can, and let me seek my death from another.”
“That you never, never shall!” said Douglas Ashton. “You shall die by my hand, or you shall complete the ruin of my family by taking my life. If you refuse my open challenge, there is no advantage I will not take of you, no indignity53 with which I will not load you, until the very name of Ravenswood shall be the sign of everything that is dishonourable, as it is already of all that is villainous.”
“That it shall never be,” said Ravenswood, fiercely; “if I am the last who must bear it, I owe it to those who once owned it that the name shall be extinguished without infamy54. I accept your challenge, time, and place of meeting. We meet, I presume, alone?”
“Alone we meet,” said Colonel Ashton, “and alone will the survivor55 of us return from that place of rendezvous56.”
“Then God have mercy on the soul of him who falls!” said Ravenswood.
“So be it!” said Colonel Ashton; “so far can my charity reach even for the man I hate most deadly, and with the deepest reason. Now, break off, for we shall be interrupted. The links by the sea-shore to the east of Wolf’s Hope; the hour, sunrise; our swords our only weapons.”
“Enough,” said the Master, “I will not fail you.”
They separated; Colonel Ashton joining the rest of the mourners, and the Master of Ravenswood taking his horse, which was tied to a tree behind the church. Colonel Ashton returned to the castle with the funeral guests, but found a pretext57 for detaching himself from them in the evening, when, changing his dress to a riding-habit, he rode to Wolf’s Hope, that night, and took up his abode58 in the little inn, in order that he might be ready for his rendezvous in the morning.
It is not known how the Master of Ravenswood disposed of the rest of that unhappy day. Late at night, however, he arrived at Wolf’s Crag, and aroused his old domestic, Caleb Balderstone, who had ceased to expect his return. Confused and flying rumours59 of the late tragical60 death of Miss Ashton, and of its mysterious cause, had already reached the old man, who was filled with the utmost anxiety, on account of the probable effect these events might produce upon the mind of his master.
The conduct of Ravenswood did not alleviate61 his apprehensions63. To the butler’s trembling entreaties64 that he would take some refreshment65, he at first returned no answer, and then suddenly and fiercely demanding wine, he drank, contrary to his habits, a very large draught66. Seeing that his master would eat nothing, the old man affectionately entreated67 that he would permit him to light him to his chamber68. It was not until the request was three or four times repeated that Ravenswood made a mute sign of compliance69. But when Balderstone conducted him to an apartment which had been comfortably fitted up, and which, since his return, he had usually occupied, Ravenswood stopped short on the threshold.
“Not here,” said he, sternly; “show me the room in which my father died; the room in which SHE slept the night the were at the castle.”
“Who, sir?” said Caleb, too terrified to preserve his presence of mind.
“SHE, Lucy Ashton! Would you kill me, old man, by forcing me to repeat her name?”
Caleb would have said something of the disrepair of the chamber, but was silenced by the irritable70 impatience71 which was expressed in his master’s countenance72; he lighted the way trembling and in silence, placed the lamp on the table of the deserted73 room, and was about to attempt some arrangement of the bed, when his master big him begone in a tone that admitted of no delay. The old man retired74, not to rest, but to prayer; and from time to time crept to the door of the apartment, in order to find out whether Ravenswood had gone to repose75. His measured heavy step upon the floor was only interrupted by deep groans76; and the repeated stamps of the heel of his heavy boot intimated too clearly that the wretched inmate77 was abandoning himself at such moments to paroxysms of uncontrolled agony. The old man thought that the morning, for which he longed, would never have dawned; but time, whose course rolls on with equal current, however it may seem more rapid or more slow to mortal apprehension62, brought the dawn at last, and spread a ruddy light on the broad verge78 of the glistening ocean. It was early in November, and the weather was serene79 for the season of the year. But an easterly wind had prevailed during the night, and the advancing tide rolled nearer than usual to the foot of the crags on which the castle was founded.
With the first peep of light, Caleb Balderstone again resorted to the door of Ravenswood’s sleeping apartment, through a chink of which he observed him engaged in measuring the length of two or three swords which lay in a closet adjoining to the apartment. He muttered to himself, as he selected one of these weapons: “It is shorter: let him have this advantage, as he has every other.”
Caleb Balderstone knew too well, from what he witnessed, upon what enterprise his master was bound, and how vain all interference on his part must necessarily prove. He had but time to retreat from the door, so nearly was he surprised by his master suddenly coming out and descending80 to the stables. The faithful domestic followed; and from the dishevelled appearance of his master’s dress, and his ghastly looks, was confirmed in his conjecture81 that he had passed the night without sleep or repose. He found him busily engaged in saddling his horse, a service from which Caleb, though with faltering82 voice and trembling hands, offered to relieve him. Ravenswood rejected his assistance by a mute sign, and having led the animal into the court, was just about to mount him, when the old domestic’s fear giving way to the strong attachment83 which was the principal passion of his mind, he flung himself suddenly at Ravenswood’s feet, and clasped his knees, while he exclaimed: “Oh, sir! oh, master! kill me if you will, but do not go out on this dreadful errand! Oh! my dear master, wait but this day; the Marquis of A—— comes tomorrow, and a’ will be remedied.”
“You have no longer a master, Caleb,” said Ravenswood, endeavouring to extricate84 himself; “why, old man, would you cling to a falling tower?”
“But I HAVE a master,” cried Caleb, still holding him fast, “while the heir of Ravenswood breathes. I am but a servant; but I was born your father’s — your grandfather’s servant. I was born for the family — I have lived for them — I would die for them! Stay but at home, and all will be well!”
“Well, fool! well!” said Ravenswood. “Vain old man, nothing hereafter in life will be well with me, and happiest is the hour that shall soonest close it!”
So saying, he extricated85 himself from the old man’s hold, threw himself on his horse, and rode out the gate; but instantly turning back, he threw towards Caleb, who hastened to meet him, a heavy purse of gold.
“Caleb!” he said, with a ghastly smile, “I make you my executor”; and again turning his bridle86, he resumed his course down the hill.
The gold fell unheeded on the pavement, for the old man ran to observe the course which was taken by his master, who turned to the left down a small and broken path, which gained the sea-shore through a cleft87 in the rock, and led to a sort of cove3 where, in former times, the boats of the castle were wont18 to be moored88. Observing him take this course, Caleb hastened to the eastern battlement, which commanded the prospect89 of the whole sands, very near as far as the village of Wolf’s Hope. He could easily see his master riding in that direction, as fast as the horse could carry him. The prophecy at once rushed on Balderstone’s mind, that the Lord of Ravenswood should perish on the Kelpie’s flow, which lay half-way betwixt the Tower and the links, or sand knolls90, to the northward91 of Wolf’s Hope. He saw him according reach the fatal spot; but he never saw him pass further.
Colonel Ashton, frantic92 for revenge, was already in the field, pacing the turf with eagerness, and looking with impatience towards the Tower for the arrival of his antagonist93. The sun had now risen, and showed its broad disk above the eastern sea, so that he could easily discern the horseman who rode towards him with speed which argued impatience equal to his own. At once the figure became invisible, as if it had melted into the air. He rubbed his eyes, as if he had witnessed an apparition94, and then hastened to the spot, near which he was met by Balderstone, who came from the opposite direction. No trace whatever o horse or rider could be discerned; it only appeared that the late winds and high tides had greatly extended the usual bounds of the quicksand, and that the unfortunate horseman, as appeared from the hoof-tracks, in his precipitate95 haste, had not attended to keep on the firm sands on the foot of the rock, but had taken the shortest and most dangerous course. One only vestige96 of his fate appeared. A large sable97 feather had been detached from his hat, and the rippling98 waves of the rising tide wafted99 it to Caleb’s feet. The old man took it up, dried it, and placed it in his bosom100.
The inhabitants of Wolf’s Hope were now alarmed, and crowded to the place, some on shore, and some in boats, but their search availed nothing. The tenacious101 depths of the quicksand, as is usual in such cases, retained its prey102.
Our tale draws to a conclusion. The Marquis of A——, alarmed at the frightful103 reports that were current, and anxious for his kinsman’s safety, arrived on the subsequent day to mourn his loss; and, after renewing in vain a search for the body, returned, to forget what had happened amid the bustle104 of politics and state affairs.
Not so Caleb Balderstone. If wordly profit could have consoled the old man, his age was better provided for than his earlier years had ever been; but life had lost to him its salt and its savour. His whole course of ideas, his feelings, whether of pride or of apprehension, of pleasure or of pain, had all arisen from its close connexion with the family which was now extinguished. He held up his head no longer, forsook105 all his usual haunts and occupations, and seemed only to find pleasure in moping about those apartments in the old castle which the Master of Ravenswood had last inhabited. He ate without refreshment, and slumbered106 without repose; and, with a fidelity107 sometimes displayed by the canine108 race, but seldom by human beings, he pined and died within a year after the catastrophe109 which we have narrated110.
The family of Ashton did not long survive that of Ravenswood. Sir William Ashton outlived his eldest111 son, the Colonel, who was slain112 in a duel113 in Flanders; and Henry, by whom he was succeeded, died unmarried. Lady Ashton lived to the verge of extreme old age, the only survivor of the group of unhappy persons whose misfortunes were owing to her implacability. That she might internally feel compunction, and reconcile herself with Heaven, whom she had offended, we will not, and we dare not, deny; but to those around her she did not evince the slightest symptom either of repentance114 or remorse115. In all external appearance she bore the same bold, haughty116, unbending character which she had displayed before these unhappy events. A splendid marble monument records her name, titles, and virtues117, while her victims remain undistinguished by tomb or epitath.
The End
1 mishap | |
n.不幸的事,不幸;灾祸 | |
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2 gallant | |
adj.英勇的,豪侠的;(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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3 cove | |
n.小海湾,小峡谷 | |
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4 ail | |
v.生病,折磨,苦恼 | |
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5 melancholy | |
n.忧郁,愁思;adj.令人感伤(沮丧)的,忧郁的 | |
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6 misty | |
adj.雾蒙蒙的,有雾的 | |
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7 dispensed | |
v.分配( dispense的过去式和过去分词 );施与;配(药) | |
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8 remains | |
n.剩余物,残留物;遗体,遗迹 | |
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9 aisle | |
n.(教堂、教室、戏院等里的)过道,通道 | |
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10 cemetery | |
n.坟墓,墓地,坟场 | |
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11 coffin | |
n.棺材,灵柩 | |
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12 consigned | |
v.把…置于(令人不快的境地)( consign的过去式和过去分词 );把…托付给;把…托人代售;丟弃 | |
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13 exasperated | |
adj.恼怒的 | |
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14 frenzy | |
n.疯狂,狂热,极度的激动 | |
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15 tract | |
n.传单,小册子,大片(土地或森林) | |
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16 persecution | |
n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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17 vault | |
n.拱形圆顶,地窖,地下室 | |
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18 wont | |
adj.习惯于;v.习惯;n.习惯 | |
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19 carrion | |
n.腐肉 | |
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20 dame | |
n.女士 | |
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21 frail | |
adj.身体虚弱的;易损坏的 | |
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22 wretch | |
n.可怜的人,不幸的人;卑鄙的人 | |
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23 vengeance | |
n.报复,报仇,复仇 | |
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24 capering | |
v.跳跃,雀跃( caper的现在分词 );蹦蹦跳跳 | |
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25 prancing | |
v.(马)腾跃( prance的现在分词 ) | |
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26 nags | |
n.不断地挑剔或批评(某人)( nag的名词复数 );不断地烦扰或伤害(某人);无休止地抱怨;不断指责v.不断地挑剔或批评(某人)( nag的第三人称单数 );不断地烦扰或伤害(某人);无休止地抱怨;不断指责 | |
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27 glistening | |
adj.闪耀的,反光的v.湿物闪耀,闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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28 crook | |
v.使弯曲;n.小偷,骗子,贼;弯曲(处) | |
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29 grudged | |
怀恨(grudge的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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30 croaks | |
v.呱呱地叫( croak的第三人称单数 );用粗的声音说 | |
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31 mumbled | |
含糊地说某事,叽咕,咕哝( mumble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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32 paralytic | |
adj. 瘫痪的 n. 瘫痪病人 | |
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33 wrung | |
绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 ); 握紧(尤指别人的手); 把(湿衣服)拧干; 绞掉(水) | |
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34 ken | |
n.视野,知识领域 | |
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35 auld | |
adj.老的,旧的 | |
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36 ravens | |
n.低质煤;渡鸦( raven的名词复数 ) | |
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37 brawl | |
n.大声争吵,喧嚷;v.吵架,对骂 | |
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38 ploy | |
n.花招,手段 | |
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39 indifference | |
n.不感兴趣,不关心,冷淡,不在乎 | |
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40 exulting | |
vi. 欢欣鼓舞,狂喜 | |
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41 bide | |
v.忍耐;等候;住 | |
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42 croaking | |
v.呱呱地叫( croak的现在分词 );用粗的声音说 | |
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43 pestilence | |
n.瘟疫 | |
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44 muffled | |
adj.(声音)被隔的;听不太清的;(衣服)裹严的;蒙住的v.压抑,捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 );用厚厚的衣帽包着(自己) | |
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45 sepulchral | |
adj.坟墓的,阴深的 | |
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46 ascended | |
v.上升,攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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47 sequestered | |
adj.扣押的;隐退的;幽静的;偏僻的v.使隔绝,使隔离( sequester的过去式和过去分词 );扣押 | |
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48 repent | |
v.悔悟,悔改,忏悔,后悔 | |
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49 penitence | |
n.忏悔,赎罪;悔过 | |
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50 memorandum | |
n.备忘录,便笺 | |
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51 irresolute | |
adj.无决断的,优柔寡断的,踌躇不定的 | |
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52 spoke | |
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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53 indignity | |
n.侮辱,伤害尊严,轻蔑 | |
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54 infamy | |
n.声名狼藉,出丑,恶行 | |
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55 survivor | |
n.生存者,残存者,幸存者 | |
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56 rendezvous | |
n.约会,约会地点,汇合点;vi.汇合,集合;vt.使汇合,使在汇合地点相遇 | |
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57 pretext | |
n.借口,托词 | |
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58 abode | |
n.住处,住所 | |
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59 rumours | |
n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 );风闻;谣言;谣传 | |
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60 tragical | |
adj. 悲剧的, 悲剧性的 | |
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61 alleviate | |
v.减轻,缓和,缓解(痛苦等) | |
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62 apprehension | |
n.理解,领悟;逮捕,拘捕;忧虑 | |
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63 apprehensions | |
疑惧 | |
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64 entreaties | |
n.恳求,乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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65 refreshment | |
n.恢复,精神爽快,提神之事物;(复数)refreshments:点心,茶点 | |
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66 draught | |
n.拉,牵引,拖;一网(饮,吸,阵);顿服药量,通风;v.起草,设计 | |
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67 entreated | |
恳求,乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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68 chamber | |
n.房间,寝室;会议厅;议院;会所 | |
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69 compliance | |
n.顺从;服从;附和;屈从 | |
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70 irritable | |
adj.急躁的;过敏的;易怒的 | |
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71 impatience | |
n.不耐烦,急躁 | |
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72 countenance | |
n.脸色,面容;面部表情;vt.支持,赞同 | |
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73 deserted | |
adj.荒芜的,荒废的,无人的,被遗弃的 | |
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74 retired | |
adj.隐退的,退休的,退役的 | |
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75 repose | |
v.(使)休息;n.安息 | |
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76 groans | |
n.呻吟,叹息( groan的名词复数 );呻吟般的声音v.呻吟( groan的第三人称单数 );发牢骚;抱怨;受苦 | |
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77 inmate | |
n.被收容者;(房屋等的)居住人;住院人 | |
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78 verge | |
n.边,边缘;v.接近,濒临 | |
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79 serene | |
adj. 安详的,宁静的,平静的 | |
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80 descending | |
n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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81 conjecture | |
n./v.推测,猜测 | |
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82 faltering | |
犹豫的,支吾的,蹒跚的 | |
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83 attachment | |
n.附属物,附件;依恋;依附 | |
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84 extricate | |
v.拯救,救出;解脱 | |
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85 extricated | |
v.使摆脱困难,脱身( extricate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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86 bridle | |
n.笼头,束缚;vt.抑制,约束;动怒 | |
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87 cleft | |
n.裂缝;adj.裂开的 | |
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88 moored | |
adj. 系泊的 动词moor的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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89 prospect | |
n.前景,前途;景色,视野 | |
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90 knolls | |
n.小圆丘,小土墩( knoll的名词复数 ) | |
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91 northward | |
adv.向北;n.北方的地区 | |
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92 frantic | |
adj.狂乱的,错乱的,激昂的 | |
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93 antagonist | |
n.敌人,对抗者,对手 | |
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94 apparition | |
n.幽灵,神奇的现象 | |
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95 precipitate | |
adj.突如其来的;vt.使突然发生;n.沉淀物 | |
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96 vestige | |
n.痕迹,遗迹,残余 | |
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97 sable | |
n.黑貂;adj.黑色的 | |
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98 rippling | |
起涟漪的,潺潺流水般声音的 | |
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99 wafted | |
v.吹送,飘送,(使)浮动( waft的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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100 bosom | |
n.胸,胸部;胸怀;内心;adj.亲密的 | |
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101 tenacious | |
adj.顽强的,固执的,记忆力强的,粘的 | |
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102 prey | |
n.被掠食者,牺牲者,掠食;v.捕食,掠夺,折磨 | |
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103 frightful | |
adj.可怕的;讨厌的 | |
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104 bustle | |
v.喧扰地忙乱,匆忙,奔忙;n.忙碌;喧闹 | |
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105 forsook | |
forsake的过去式 | |
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106 slumbered | |
微睡,睡眠(slumber的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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107 fidelity | |
n.忠诚,忠实;精确 | |
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108 canine | |
adj.犬的,犬科的 | |
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109 catastrophe | |
n.大灾难,大祸 | |
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110 narrated | |
v.故事( narrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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111 eldest | |
adj.最年长的,最年老的 | |
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112 slain | |
杀死,宰杀,杀戮( slay的过去分词 ); (slay的过去分词) | |
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113 duel | |
n./v.决斗;(双方的)斗争 | |
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114 repentance | |
n.懊悔 | |
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115 remorse | |
n.痛恨,悔恨,自责 | |
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116 haughty | |
adj.傲慢的,高傲的 | |
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117 virtues | |
美德( virtue的名词复数 ); 德行; 优点; 长处 | |
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