Say from whence
You owe this strange intelligence? or why
Upon this blasted heath you stop our way
With such prophetic greeting?
Speak, I charge you.
Macbeth.
Upon the evening of the day when Bertram’s examination had taken place, Colonel Mannering arrived at Woodbourne from Edinburgh. He found his family in their usual state, which probably, so far as Julia was concerned, would not have been the case had she learned the news of Bertram’s arrest. But as, during the Colonel’s absence, the two young ladies lived much retired2, this circumstance fortunately had not reached Woodbourne. A letter had already made Miss Bertram acquainted with the downfall of the expectations which had been formed upon the bequest3 of her kinswoman. Whatever hopes that news might have dispelled4, the disappointment did not prevent her from joining her friend in affording a cheerful reception to the Colonel, to whom she thus endeavoured to express the deep sense she entertained of his paternal5 kindness. She touched on her regret that at such a season of the year he should have made, upon her account, a journey so fruitless.
‘That it was fruitless to you, my dear,’ said the Colonel, ‘I do most deeply lament6; but for my own share, I have made some valuable acquaintances, and have spent the time I have been absent in Edinburgh with peculiar7 satisfaction; so that on that score there is nothing to be regretted. Even our friend the Dominie is returned thrice the man he was, from having sharpened his wits in controversy8 with the geniuses of the northern metropolis9.’
‘Of a surety,’ said the Dominie, with great complacency, ‘I did wrestle10, and was not overcome, though my adversary11 was cunning in his art.’
‘I presume,’ said Miss Mannering, ‘the contest was somewhat fatiguing12, Mr. Sampson?’
‘Very much, young lady; howbeit I girded up my loins and strove against him.’
‘I can bear witness,’ said the Colonel; ‘I never saw an affair better contested. The enemy was like the Mahratta cavalry13: he assailed14 on all sides, and presented no fair mark for artillery15; but Mr. Sampson stood to his guns notwithstanding, and fired away, now upon the enemy and now upon the dust which he had raised. But we must not fight our battles over again to-night; to-morrow we shall have the whole at breakfast.’
The next morning at breakfast, however, the Dominie did not make his appearance. He had walked out, a servant said, early in the morning. It was so common for him to forget his meals that his absence never deranged16 the family. The housekeeper17, a decent old-fashioned Presbyterian matron, having, as such, the highest respect for Sampson’s theological acquisitions, had it in charge on these occasions to take care that he was no sufferer by his absence of mind, and therefore usually waylaid18 him on his return, to remind him of his sublunary wants, and to minister to their relief. It seldom, however, happened that he was absent from two meals together, as was the case in the present instance. We must explain the cause of this unusual occurrence.
The conversation which Mr. Pleydell had held with Mr. Mannering on the subject of the loss of Harry19 Bertram had awakened20 all the painful sensations which that event had inflicted21 upon Sampson. The affectionate heart of the poor Dominie had always reproached him that his negligence22 in leaving the child in the care of Frank Kennedy had been the proximate cause of the murder of the one, the loss of the other, the death of Mrs. Bertram, and the ruin of the family of his patron. It was a subject which he never conversed23 upon, if indeed his mode of speech could be called conversation at any time; but it was often present to his imagination. The sort of hope so strongly affirmed and asserted in Mrs. Bertram’s last settlement had excited a corresponding feeling in the Dominie’s bosom24, which was exasperated26 into a sort of sickening anxiety by the discredit27 with which Pleydell had treated it. ‘Assuredly,’ thought Sampson to himself, ‘he is a man of erudition, and well skilled in the weighty matters of the law; but he is also a man of humorous levity28 and inconsistency of speech, and wherefore should he pronounce ex cathedra, as it were, on the hope expressed by worthy29 Madam Margaret Bertram of Singleside?’
All this, I say, the Dominie thought to himself; for had he uttered half the sentence, his jaws30 would have ached for a month under the unusual fatigue31 of such a continued exertion32. The result of these cogitations was a resolution to go and visit the scene of the tragedy at Warroch Point, where he had not been for many years; not, indeed, since the fatal accident had happened. The walk was a long one, for the Point of Warroch lay on the farther side of the Ellangowan property, which was interposed between it and Woodbourne. Besides, the Dominie went astray more than once, and met with brooks33 swoln into torrents34 by the melting of the snow, where he, honest man, had only the summer recollection of little trickling36 rills.
At length, however, he reached the woods which he had made the object of his excursion, and traversed them with care, muddling37 his disturbed brains with vague efforts to recall every circumstance of the catastrophe38. It will readily be supposed that the influence of local situation and association was inadequate39 to produce conclusions different from those which he had formed under the immediate40 pressure of the occurrences themselves. ‘With many a weary sigh, therefore, and many a groan,’ the poor Dominie returned from his hopeless pilgrimage, and weariedly plodded41 his way towards Woodbourne, debating at times in his altered mind a question which was forced upon him by the cravings of an appetite rather of the keenest, namely, whether he had breakfasted that morning or no? It was in this twilight42 humour, now thinking of the loss of the child, then involuntarily compelled to meditate43 upon the somewhat incongruous subject of hung beef, rolls, and butter, that his route, which was different from that which he had taken in the morning, conducted him past the small ruined tower, or rather vestige44 of a tower, called by the country people the Kaim of Derncleugh.
The reader may recollect35 the description of this ruin in the twenty-seventh chapter, as the vault45 in which young Bertram, under the auspices46 of Meg Merrilies, witnessed the death of Hatteraick’s lieutenant47. The tradition of the country added ghostly terrors to the natural awe48 inspired by the situation of this place, which terrors the gipsies who so long inhabited the vicinity had probably invented, or at least propagated, for their own advantage. It was said that, during the times of the Galwegian independence, one Hanlon Mac-Dingawaie, brother to the reigning49 chief, Knarth Mac-Dingawaie, murdered his brother and sovereign, in order to usurp50 the principality from his infant nephew, and that, being pursued for vengeance51 by the faithful allies and retainers of the house, who espoused52 the cause of the lawful53 heir, he was compelled to retreat, with a few followers54 whom he had involved in his crime, to this impregnable tower called the Kaim of Derucleugh, where he defended himself until nearly reduced by famine, when, setting fire to the place, he and the small remaining garrison55 desperately56 perished by their own swords, rather than fall into the hands of their exasperated enemies. This tragedy, which, considering the wild times wherein it was placed, might have some foundation in truth, was larded with many legends of superstition57 and diablerie, so that most of the peasants of the neighbourhood, if benighted58, would rather have chosen to make a considerable circuit than pass these haunted walls. The lights, often seen around the tower, when used as the rendezvous59 of the lawless characters by whom it was occasionally frequented, were accounted for, under authority of these tales of witchery, in a manner at once convenient for the private parties concerned and satisfactory to the public.
Now it must be confessed that our friend Sampson, although a profound scholar and mathematician60, had not travelled so far in philosophy as to doubt the reality of witchcraft61 or apparitions62. Born, indeed, at a time when a doubt in the existence of witches was interpreted as equivalent to a justification63 of their infernal practices, a belief of such legends had been impressed upon the Dominie as an article indivisible from his religious faith, and perhaps it would have been equally difficult to have induced him to doubt the one as the other. With these feelings, and in a thick misty64 day, which was already drawing to its close, Dominie Sampson did not pass the Kaim of Derncleugh without some feelings of tacit horror.
What, then, was his astonishment65 when, on passing the door — that door which was supposed to have been placed there by one of the latter Lairds of Ellangowan to prevent presumptuous66 strangers from incurring67 the dangers of the haunted vault — that door, supposed to be always locked, and the key of which was popularly said to be deposited with the presbytery — that door, that very door, opened suddenly, and the figure of Meg Merrilies, well known, though not seen for many a revolving68 year, was placed at once before the eyes of the startled Dominie! She stood immediately before him in the footpath69, confronting him so absolutely that he could not avoid her except by fairly turning back, which his manhood prevented him from thinking of.
‘I kenn’d ye wad be here,’ she said, with her harsh and hollow voice; ‘I ken1 wha ye seek; but ye maun do my bidding.’
‘Get thee behind me!’ said the alarmed Dominie. ‘Avoid ye! Conjuro te, scelestissima, nequissima, spurcissima, iniquissima atque miserrima, conjuro te!!!’
Meg stood her ground against this tremendous volley of superlatives, which Sampson hawked70 up from the pit of his stomach and hurled71 at her in thunder. ‘Is the carl daft,’ she said, ‘wi’ his glamour72?’
‘Conjuro,’ continued the Dominie, ‘abjuro, contestor atque viriliter impero tibi!’
‘What, in the name of Sathan, are ye feared for, wi’ your French gibberish, that would make a dog sick? Listen, ye stickit stibbler, to what I tell ye, or ye sail rue73 it while there’s a limb o’ ye hings to anither! Tell Colonel Mannering that I ken he’s seeking me. He kens74, and I ken, that the blood will be wiped out, and the lost will be found,
And Bertram’s right and Bertram’s might
Shall meet on Ellangowan height.
Hae, there’s a letter to him; I was gaun to send it in another way. I canna write mysell; but I hae them that will baith write and read, and ride and rin for me. Tell him the time’s coming now, and the weird’s dreed, and the wheel’s turning. Bid him look at the stars as he has looked at them before. Will ye mind a’ this?’
‘Assuredly,’ said the Dominie, ‘I am dubious75; for, woman, I am perturbed76 at thy words, and my flesh quakes to hear thee.’
‘They’ll do you nae ill though, and maybe muckle gude.’
‘Avoid ye! I desire no good that comes by unlawful means.’
‘Fule body that thou art,’ said Meg, stepping up to him, with a frown of indignation that made her dark eyes flash like lamps from under her bent77 brows — ‘Fule body! if I meant ye wrang, couldna I clod ye ower that craig, and wad man ken how ye cam by your end mair than Frank Kennedy? Hear ye that, ye worricow?’
‘In the name of all that is good,’ said the Dominie, recoiling78, and pointing his long pewter-headed walking cane79 like a javelin80 at the supposed sorceress — ‘in the name of all that is good, bide81 off hands! I will not be handled; woman, stand off, upon thine own proper peril82! Desist, I say; I am strong; lo, I will resist!’ Here his speech was cut short; for Meg, armed with supernatural strength (as the Dominie asserted), broke in upon his guard, put by a thrust which he made at her with his cane, and lifted him into the vault, ‘as easily,’ said he, ‘as I could sway a Kitchen’s Atlas83.’
‘Sit down there,’ she said, pushing the half-throttled preacher with some violence against a broken chair — ‘sit down there and gather your wind and your senses, ye black barrow-tram o’ the kirk that ye are. Are ye fou or fasting?’
‘Fasting, from all but sin,’ answered the Dominie, who, recovering his voice, and finding his exorcisms only served to exasperate25 the intractable sorceress, thought it best to affect complaisance84 and submission85, inwardly conning86 over, however, the wholesome87 conjurations which he durst no longer utter aloud. But as the Dominie’s brain was by no means equal to carry on two trains of ideas at the same time, a word or two of his mental exercise sometimes escaped and mingled88 with his uttered speech in a manner ludicrous enough, especially as the poor man shrunk himself together after every escape of the kind, from terror of the effect it might produce upon the irritable89 feelings of the witch.
Meg in the meanwhile went to a great black cauldron that was boiling on a fire on the floor, and, lifting the lid, an odour was diffused90 through the vault which, if the vapours of a witch’s cauldron could in aught be trusted, promised better things than the hell-broth which such vessels91 are usually supposed to contain. It was, in fact, the savour of a goodly stew92, composed of fowls93, hares, partridges, and moor-game boiled in a large mess with potatoes, onions, and leeks94, and from the size of the cauldron appeared to be prepared for half a dozen of people at least. ‘So ye hae eat naething a’ day?’ said Meg, heaving a large portion of this mess into a brown dish and strewing95 it savourily with salt and pepper.26
‘Nothing,’ answered the Dominie, ‘scelestissima! — that is, gudewife.’
‘Hae then,’ said she, placing the dish before him, ‘there’s what will warm your heart.’
‘I do not hunger, malefica — that is to say, Mrs. Merrilies!’ for he said unto himself,’ the savour is sweet, but it hath been cooked by a Canidia or an Ericthoe.’
‘If ye dinna eat instantly and put some saul in ye, by the bread and the salt, I’ll put it down your throat wi’ the cutty spoon, scaulding as it is, and whether ye will or no. Gape96, sinner, and swallow!’
Sampson, afraid of eye of newt, and toe of frog, tigers’ chaudrons, and so forth97, had determined98 not to venture; but the smell of the stew was fast melting his obstinacy99, which flowed from his chops as it were in streams of water, and the witch’s threats decided100 him to feed. Hunger and fear are excellent casuists.
‘Saul,’ said Hunger, ‘feasted with the witch of Endor.’ ‘And,’ quoth Fear, ‘the salt which she sprinkled upon the food showeth plainly it is not a necromantic101 banquet, in which that seasoning102 never occurs.’ ‘And, besides,’ says Hunger, after the first spoonful, ‘it is savoury and refreshing103 viands104.’
‘So ye like the meat?’ said the hostess.
‘Yea,’ answered the Dominie, ‘and I give thee thanks, sceleratissima! — which means, Mrs. Margaret.’
‘Aweel, eat your fill; but an ye kenn’d how it was gotten ye maybe wadna like it sae weel.’ Sampson’s spoon dropped in the act of conveying its load to his mouth. ‘There’s been mony a moonlight watch to bring a’ that trade thegither,’ continued Meg; ‘the folk that are to eat that dinner thought little o’ your game laws.’
‘Is that all?’ thought Sampson, resuming his spoon and shovelling105 away manfully; ‘I will not lack my food upon that argument.’
‘Now ye maun tak a dram?’
‘I will,’ quoth Sampson, ‘conjuro te — that is, I thank you heartily,’ for he thought to himself, in for a penny in for a pound; and he fairly drank the witch’s health in a cupful of brandy. When he had put this copestone upon Meg’s good cheer, he felt, as he said, ‘mightily elevated, and afraid of no evil which could befall unto him.’
‘Will ye remember my errand now?’ said Meg Merrilies; ‘I ken by the cast o’ your ee that ye’re anither man than when you cam in.’
‘I will, Mrs. Margaret,’ repeated Sampson, stoutly106; ‘I will deliver unto him the sealed yepistle, and will add what you please to send by word of mouth.’
‘Then I’ll make it short,’ says Meg. ‘Tell him to look at the stars without fail this night, and to do what I desire him in that letter, as he would wish
That Bertram’s right and Bertram’s might
Should meet on Ellangowan height.
I have seen him twice when he saw na me; I ken when he was in this country first, and I ken what’s brought him back again. Up an’ to the gate! ye’re ower lang here; follow me.’
Sampson followed the sibyl accordingly, who guided him about a quarter of a mile through the woods, by a shorter cut than he could have found for himself; then they entered upon the common, Meg still marching before him at a great pace, until she gained the top of a small hillock which overhung the road.
‘Here,’ she said, ‘stand still here. Look how the setting sun breaks through yon cloud that’s been darkening the lift a’ day. See where the first stream o’ light fa’s: it’s upon Donagild’s round tower, the auldest tower in the Castle o’ Ellangowan; that’s no for naething! See as it’s glooming to seaward abune yon sloop107 in the bay; that’s no for naething neither. Here I stood on this very spot,’ said she, drawing herself up so as not to lose one hair-breadth of her uncommon108 height, and stretching out her long sinewy109 arm and clenched110 hand — ‘here I stood when I tauld the last Laird o’ Ellangowan what was coming on his house; and did that fa’ to the ground? na, it hit even ower sair! And here, where I brake the wand of peace ower him, here I stand again, to bid God bless and prosper111 the just heir of Ellangowan that will sune be brought to his ain; and the best laird he shall be that Ellangowan has seen for three hundred years. I’ll no live to see it, maybe; but there will be mony a blythe ee see it though mine be closed. And now, Abel Sampson, as ever ye lo’ed the house of Ellangowan, away wi’ my message to the English Colonel, as if life and death were upon your haste!’
So saying, she turned suddenly from the amazed Dominie and regained112 with swift and long strides the shelter of the wood from which she had issued at the point where it most encroached upon the common. Sampson gazed after her for a moment in utter astonishment, and then obeyed her directions, hurrying to Woodbourne at a pace very unusual for him, exclaiming three times, ‘Prodigious113! prodigious! pro-di-gi-ous!’
1 ken | |
n.视野,知识领域 | |
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2 retired | |
adj.隐退的,退休的,退役的 | |
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3 bequest | |
n.遗赠;遗产,遗物 | |
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4 dispelled | |
v.驱散,赶跑( dispel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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5 paternal | |
adj.父亲的,像父亲的,父系的,父方的 | |
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6 lament | |
n.悲叹,悔恨,恸哭;v.哀悼,悔恨,悲叹 | |
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7 peculiar | |
adj.古怪的,异常的;特殊的,特有的 | |
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8 controversy | |
n.争论,辩论,争吵 | |
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9 metropolis | |
n.首府;大城市 | |
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10 wrestle | |
vi.摔跤,角力;搏斗;全力对付 | |
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11 adversary | |
adj.敌手,对手 | |
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12 fatiguing | |
a.使人劳累的 | |
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13 cavalry | |
n.骑兵;轻装甲部队 | |
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14 assailed | |
v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 );困扰;质问;毅然应对 | |
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15 artillery | |
n.(军)火炮,大炮;炮兵(部队) | |
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16 deranged | |
adj.疯狂的 | |
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17 housekeeper | |
n.管理家务的主妇,女管家 | |
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18 waylaid | |
v.拦截,拦路( waylay的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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19 harry | |
vt.掠夺,蹂躏,使苦恼 | |
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20 awakened | |
v.(使)醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 );(使)觉醒;弄醒;(使)意识到 | |
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21 inflicted | |
把…强加给,使承受,遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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22 negligence | |
n.疏忽,玩忽,粗心大意 | |
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23 conversed | |
v.交谈,谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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24 bosom | |
n.胸,胸部;胸怀;内心;adj.亲密的 | |
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25 exasperate | |
v.激怒,使(疾病)加剧,使恶化 | |
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26 exasperated | |
adj.恼怒的 | |
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27 discredit | |
vt.使不可置信;n.丧失信义;不信,怀疑 | |
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28 levity | |
n.轻率,轻浮,不稳定,多变 | |
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29 worthy | |
adj.(of)值得的,配得上的;有价值的 | |
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30 jaws | |
n.口部;嘴 | |
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31 fatigue | |
n.疲劳,劳累 | |
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32 exertion | |
n.尽力,努力 | |
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33 brooks | |
n.小溪( brook的名词复数 ) | |
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34 torrents | |
n.倾注;奔流( torrent的名词复数 );急流;爆发;连续不断 | |
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35 recollect | |
v.回忆,想起,记起,忆起,记得 | |
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36 trickling | |
n.油画底色含油太多而成泡沫状突起v.滴( trickle的现在分词 );淌;使)慢慢走;缓慢移动 | |
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37 muddling | |
v.弄乱,弄糟( muddle的现在分词 );使糊涂;对付,混日子 | |
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38 catastrophe | |
n.大灾难,大祸 | |
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39 inadequate | |
adj.(for,to)不充足的,不适当的 | |
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40 immediate | |
adj.立即的;直接的,最接近的;紧靠的 | |
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41 plodded | |
v.沉重缓慢地走(路)( plod的过去式和过去分词 );努力从事;沉闷地苦干;缓慢进行(尤指艰难枯燥的工作) | |
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42 twilight | |
n.暮光,黄昏;暮年,晚期,衰落时期 | |
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43 meditate | |
v.想,考虑,(尤指宗教上的)沉思,冥想 | |
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44 vestige | |
n.痕迹,遗迹,残余 | |
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45 vault | |
n.拱形圆顶,地窖,地下室 | |
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46 auspices | |
n.资助,赞助 | |
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47 lieutenant | |
n.陆军中尉,海军上尉;代理官员,副职官员 | |
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48 awe | |
n.敬畏,惊惧;vt.使敬畏,使惊惧 | |
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49 reigning | |
adj.统治的,起支配作用的 | |
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50 usurp | |
vt.篡夺,霸占;vi.篡位 | |
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51 vengeance | |
n.报复,报仇,复仇 | |
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52 espoused | |
v.(决定)支持,拥护(目标、主张等)( espouse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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53 lawful | |
adj.法律许可的,守法的,合法的 | |
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54 followers | |
追随者( follower的名词复数 ); 用户; 契据的附面; 从动件 | |
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55 garrison | |
n.卫戍部队;驻地,卫戍区;vt.派(兵)驻防 | |
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56 desperately | |
adv.极度渴望地,绝望地,孤注一掷地 | |
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57 superstition | |
n.迷信,迷信行为 | |
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58 benighted | |
adj.蒙昧的 | |
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59 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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60 mathematician | |
n.数学家 | |
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61 witchcraft | |
n.魔法,巫术 | |
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62 apparitions | |
n.特异景象( apparition的名词复数 );幽灵;鬼;(特异景象等的)出现 | |
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63 justification | |
n.正当的理由;辩解的理由 | |
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64 misty | |
adj.雾蒙蒙的,有雾的 | |
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65 astonishment | |
n.惊奇,惊异 | |
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66 presumptuous | |
adj.胆大妄为的,放肆的,冒昧的,冒失的 | |
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67 incurring | |
遭受,招致,引起( incur的现在分词 ) | |
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68 revolving | |
adj.旋转的,轮转式的;循环的v.(使)旋转( revolve的现在分词 );细想 | |
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69 footpath | |
n.小路,人行道 | |
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70 hawked | |
通过叫卖主动兜售(hawk的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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71 hurled | |
v.猛投,用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 );大声叫骂 | |
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72 glamour | |
n.魔力,魅力;vt.迷住 | |
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73 rue | |
n.懊悔,芸香,后悔;v.后悔,悲伤,懊悔 | |
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74 kens | |
vt.知道(ken的第三人称单数形式) | |
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75 dubious | |
adj.怀疑的,无把握的;有问题的,靠不住的 | |
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76 perturbed | |
adj.烦燥不安的v.使(某人)烦恼,不安( perturb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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77 bent | |
n.爱好,癖好;adj.弯的;决心的,一心的 | |
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78 recoiling | |
v.畏缩( recoil的现在分词 );退缩;报应;返回 | |
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79 cane | |
n.手杖,细长的茎,藤条;v.以杖击,以藤编制的 | |
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80 javelin | |
n.标枪,投枪 | |
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81 bide | |
v.忍耐;等候;住 | |
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82 peril | |
n.(严重的)危险;危险的事物 | |
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83 atlas | |
n.地图册,图表集 | |
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84 complaisance | |
n.彬彬有礼,殷勤,柔顺 | |
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85 submission | |
n.服从,投降;温顺,谦虚;提出 | |
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86 conning | |
v.诈骗,哄骗( con的现在分词 );指挥操舵( conn的现在分词 ) | |
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87 wholesome | |
adj.适合;卫生的;有益健康的;显示身心健康的 | |
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88 mingled | |
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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89 irritable | |
adj.急躁的;过敏的;易怒的 | |
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90 diffused | |
散布的,普及的,扩散的 | |
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91 vessels | |
n.血管( vessel的名词复数 );船;容器;(具有特殊品质或接受特殊品质的)人 | |
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92 stew | |
n.炖汤,焖,烦恼;v.炖汤,焖,忧虑 | |
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93 fowls | |
鸟( fowl的名词复数 ); 禽肉; 既不是这; 非驴非马 | |
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94 leeks | |
韭葱( leek的名词复数 ) | |
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95 strewing | |
v.撒在…上( strew的现在分词 );散落于;点缀;撒满 | |
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96 gape | |
v.张口,打呵欠,目瞪口呆地凝视 | |
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97 forth | |
adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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98 determined | |
adj.坚定的;有决心的 | |
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99 obstinacy | |
n.顽固;(病痛等)难治 | |
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100 decided | |
adj.决定了的,坚决的;明显的,明确的 | |
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101 necromantic | |
降神术的,妖术的 | |
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102 seasoning | |
n.调味;调味料;增添趣味之物 | |
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103 refreshing | |
adj.使精神振作的,使人清爽的,使人喜欢的 | |
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104 viands | |
n.食品,食物 | |
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105 shovelling | |
v.铲子( shovel的现在分词 );锹;推土机、挖土机等的)铲;铲形部份 | |
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106 stoutly | |
adv.牢固地,粗壮的 | |
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107 sloop | |
n.单桅帆船 | |
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108 uncommon | |
adj.罕见的,非凡的,不平常的 | |
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109 sinewy | |
adj.多腱的,强壮有力的 | |
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110 clenched | |
v.紧握,抓紧,咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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111 prosper | |
v.成功,兴隆,昌盛;使成功,使昌隆,繁荣 | |
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112 regained | |
复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 ); 赢回; 重回; 复至某地 | |
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113 prodigious | |
adj.惊人的,奇妙的;异常的;巨大的;庞大的 | |
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