The ledge1 of rock upon which Baron2 d’Escorval and Corporal Bavois rested in their descent from the tower was very narrow.
In the widest place it did not measure more than a yard and a half, and its surface was uneven3, cut by innumerable fissures4 and crevices5, and sloped suddenly at the edge. To stand there in the daytime, with the wall of the tower behind one, and the precipice7 at one’s feet, would have been considered very imprudent.
Of course, the task of lowering a man from this ledge, at dead of night, was perilous9 in the extreme.
Before allowing the baron to descend10, honest Bavois took every possible precaution to save himself from being dragged over the verge11 of the precipice by the weight he would be obliged to sustain.
He placed his crowbar firmly in a crevice6 of the rock, then bracing12 his feet against the bar, he seated himself firmly, throwing his shoulders well back, and it was only when he was sure of his position that he said to the baron:
“I am here and firmly fixed13, comrade; now let yourself down.”
The sudden parting of the rope hurled14 the brave corporal rudely against the tower wall, then he was thrown forward by the rebound15.
His unalterable sang-froid was all that saved him.
For more than a minute he hung suspended over the abyss into which the baron had just fallen, and his hands clutched at the empty air.
A hasty movement, and he would have fallen.
But he possessed16 a marvellous power of will, which prevented him from attempting any violent effort. Prudently17, but with determined18 energy, he screwed his feet and his knees into the crevices of the rock, feeling with his hands for some point of support, and gradually sinking to one side, he finally succeeded in dragging himself from the verge of the precipice.
It was time, for a cramp19 seized him with such violence that he was obliged to sit down and rest for a moment.
That the baron had been killed by his fall, Bavois did not doubt for an instant. But this catastrophe20 did not produce much effect upon the old soldier, who had seen so many comrades fall by his side on the field of battle.
What did amaze him was the breaking of the rope — a rope so large that one would have supposed it capable of sustaining the weight of ten men like the baron.
As he could not, by reason of the darkness, see the ruptured21 place, Bavois felt it with his finger; and, to his inexpressible astonishment22, he found it smooth. No filaments23, no rough bits of hemp24, as usual after a break; the surface was perfectly25 even.
The corporal comprehended what Maurice had comprehended below.
“The scoundrels have cut the rope!” he exclaimed, with a frightful26 oath.
And a recollection of what had happened three or four hours previous arose in his mind.
“This,” he thought, “explains the noise which the poor baron heard in the next room! And I said to him: ‘Nonsense! it is a rat!’”
Then he thought of a very simple method of verifying his conjectures27. He passed the cord about the crowbar and pulled it with all his strength. It parted in three places.
This discovery appalled28 him.
A part of the rope had fallen with the unfortunate baron, and it was evident that the remaining fragments tied together would not be long enough to reach to the base of the rock.
From this isolated29 ledge it was impossible to reach the ground upon which the citadel30 was built.
“You are in a fine fix, Corporal,” he growled31.
Honest Bavois looked the situation full in the face, and saw that it was desperate.
“Well, Corporal, your jig32 is up!” he murmured, “At daybreak they will find that the baron’s cell is empty. They will poke33 their heads out of the window, and they will see you here, like a stone saint upon his pedestal. Naturally, you will be captured, tried, condemned34; and you will be led out to take your turn in the ditches. Ready! Aim! Fire! And that will be the end of your story.”
He stopped short. A vague idea had entered his mind, which he felt might possibly be his salvation35.
It came to him in touching36 the rope which he had used in his descent from the prison to the ledge, and which, firmly attached to the bars, hung down the side of the tower.
“If you had that rope which hangs there useless, Corporal, you could add it to these fragments, and then it would be long enough to carry you to the foot of the rock. But how shall I obtain it? It is certainly impossible to go back after it! and how can I pull it down when it is so securely fastened to the bars?”
He sought a way, found it, and pursued it, talking to himself all the while as if there were two corporals; one prompt to conceive, the other, a trifle stupid, to whom it was necessary to explain everything in detail.
“Attention, Corporal,” said he. “You are going to knot these five pieces of rope together and attach them to your waist; then you are going to climb up to that window, hand over hand. Not an easy matter! A carpeted staircase is preferable to that rope dangling37 there. But no matter, you are not finical, Corporal! So you climb it, and here you are in the cell again. What are you going to do? A mere38 nothing. You are unfastening the cord attached to the bars; you will tie it to this, and that will give you eighty feet of good strong rope. Then you will pass the rope about one of the bars that remain intact; the rope will thus be doubled; then you let yourself down again, and when you are here, you have only to untie39 one of the knots and the rope is at your service. Do you understand, Corporal?”
The corporal did understand so well that in less than twenty minutes he was back again upon the narrow shelf of rock, the difficult and dangerous operation which he had planned accomplished40.
Not without a terrible effort; not without torn and bleeding hands and knees.
But he had succeeded in obtaining the rope, and now he was certain that he could make his escape from his dangerous position. He laughed gleefully, or rather with that chuckle41 which was habitual42 to him.
Anxiety, then joy, had made him forget M. d’Escorval. At the thought of him, he was smitten43 with remorse44.
“Poor man!” he murmured. “I shall succeed in saving my miserable45 life, for which no one cares, but I was unable to save him. Undoubtedly46, by this time his friends have carried him away.”
As he uttered these words he was leaning over the abyss. He doubted the evidence of his own senses when he saw a faint light moving here and there in the depths below.
What had happened? For something very extraordinary must have happened to induce intelligent men like the baron’s friends to display this light, which, if observed from the citadel, would betray their presence and ruin them.
But Corporal Bavois’s moments were too precious to be wasted in idle conjectures.
“Better go down on the double-quick,” he said aloud, as if to spur on his courage. “Come, my friend, spit on your hands and be off!”
As he spoke47 the old soldier threw himself flat on his belly48 and crawled slowly backward to the verge of the precipice. The spirit was strong, but the flesh shuddered50. To march upon a battery had always been a mere pastime to the worthy51 corporal; but to face an unknown peril8, to suspend one’s life upon a cord, was a different matter.
Great drops of perspiration52, caused by the horror of his situation, stood out upon his brow when he felt that half his body had passed the edge of the precipice, and that the slightest movement would now launch him into space.
He made this movement, murmuring:
“If there is a God who watches over honest people let Him open His eyes this instant!”
The God of the just was watching.
Bavois arrived at the end of his dangerous journey with torn and bleeding hands, but safe. He fell like a mass of rock; and the rudeness of the shock drew from him a groan53 resembling the roar of an infuriated beast.
For more than a minute he lay there upon the ground stunned54 and dizzy.
When he rose two men seized him roughly.
“Ah, no foolishness,” he said quickly. “It is I, Bavois.”
This did not cause them to relax their hold.
“How does it happen,” demanded one, in a threatening tone, “that Baron d’Escorval falls and you succeed in making the descent in safety a few moments later?”
The old soldier was too shrewd not to understand the whole import of this insulting question.
The sorrow and indignation aroused within him gave him strength to free himself from the hands of his captors.
“Mille tonnerres!” he exclaimed; “so I pass for a traitor55, do I! No, it is impossible — listen to me.”
Then rapidly, but with surprising clearness, he related all the details of his escape, his despair, his perilous situation, and the almost insurmountable obstacles which he had overcome. To hear was to believe.
The men — they were, of course, the retired56 army officers who had been waiting for the baron — offered the honest corporal their hands, sincerely sorry that they had wounded the feelings of a man who was so worthy of their respect and gratitude57.
“You will forgive us, Corporal,” they said, sadly. “Misery renders men suspicious and unjust, and we are very unhappy.”
“No offence,” he growled. “If I had trusted poor Monsieur d’Escorval, he would be alive now.”
“The baron still breathes,” said one of the officers.
This was such astounding58 news that Bavois was utterly59 confounded for a moment.
“Ah! I will give my right hand, if necessary, to save him!” he exclaimed, at last.
“If it is possible to save him, he will be saved, my friend. That worthy priest whom you see there, is an excellent physician. He is examining Monsieur d’Escorval’s wounds now. It was by his order that we procured60 and lighted this candle, which may bring our enemies upon us at any moment; but this is not a time for hesitation62.”
Bavois looked with all his eyes, but from where he was standing63 he could discover only a confused group of moving figures.
“I would like to see the poor man,” he said, sadly.
“Come nearer, my good fellow; fear nothing!”
He stepped forward, and by the flickering64 light of the candle which Marie-Anne held, he saw a spectacle which moved him more than the horrors of the bloodiest65 battle-field.
The baron was lying upon the ground, his head supported on Mme. d’Escorval’s knee.
His face was not disfigured; but he was pale as death itself, and his eyes were closed.
At intervals66 a convulsive shudder49 shook his frame, and a stream of blood gushed67 from his mouth. His clothing was hacked68 — literally69 hacked in pieces; and it was easy to see that his body had sustained many frightful wounds,
Kneeling beside the unconscious man, Abbe Midon, with admirable dexterity70, was stanching71 the blood and applying bandages which had been torn from the linen72 of those present.
Maurice and one of the officers were assisting him. “Ah! if I had my hands on the scoundrel who cut the rope,” cried the corporal, in a passion of indignation; “but patience. I shall have him yet.”
“Do you know who it was?”
“Only too well!”
He said no more. The abbe had done all it was possible to do, and he now lifted the wounded man a little higher on Mme. d’Escorval’s knee.
This change of position elicited73 a moan that betrayed the unfortunate baron’s intense sufferings. He opened his eyes and faltered74 a few words — they were the first he had uttered.
“Firmin!” he murmured, “Firmin!” It was the name of the baron’s former secretary, a man who had been absolutely devoted75 to his master, but who had been dead for several years. It was evident that the baron’s mind was wandering. Still he had some vague idea of his terrible situation, for in a stifled76, almost inaudible voice, he added:
“Oh! how I suffer! Firmin, I will not fall into the hands of the Marquis de Courtornieu alive. You shall kill me rather — do you hear me? I command it.”
This was all; then his eyes closed again, and his head fell back a dead weight. One would have supposed that he had yielded up his last sigh.
Such was the opinion of the officers; and it was with poignant77 anxiety they drew the abbe a little aside.
“Is it all over?” they asked. “Is there any hope?”
The priest sadly shook his head, and pointing to heaven:
“My hope is in God!” he said, reverently78.
The hour, the place, the terrible catastrophe, the present danger, the threatening future, all combined to lend a deep solemnity to the words of the priest.
So profound was the impression that, for more than a minute, these men, familiar with peril and scenes of horror, stood in awed79 silence.
Maurice, who approached, followed by Corporal Bavois, brought them back to the exigencies80 of the present.
“Ought we not to make haste and carry away my father?” he asked. “Must we not be in Piedmont before evening?”
“Yes!” exclaimed the officers, “let us start at once.”
But the priest did not move, and in a despondent81 voice, he said:
“To make any attempt to carry Monsieur d’Escorval across the frontier in his present condition would cost him his life.”
This seemed so inevitably82 a death-warrant for them all, that they shuddered.
“My God! what shall we do?” faltered Maurice. “What course shall we pursue?”
Not a voice replied. It was clear that they hoped for salvation through the priest alone.
He was lost in thought, and it was some time before he spoke.
“About an hour’s walk from here,” he said, at last, “beyond the Croix d’Arcy, is the hut of a peasant upon whom I can rely. His name is Poignot; and he was formerly83 in Monsieur Lacheneur’s employ. With the assistance of his three sons, he now tills quite a large farm. We must procure61 a litter and carry Monsieur d’Escorval to the house of this honest peasant.”
“What, Monsieur,” interrupted one of the officers, “you wish us to procure a litter at this hour of the night, and in this neighborhood?”
“It must be done.”
“But, will it not awaken84 suspicion?”
“Most assuredly.”
“The Montaignac police will follow us.”
“I am certain of it.”
“The baron will be recaptured!”
“No.”
The abbe spoke in the tone of a man who, by virtue85 of assuming all the responsibility, feels that he has a right to be obeyed.
“When the baron has been conveyed to Poignot’s house,” he continued, “one of you gentlemen will take the wounded man’s place upon the litter; the others will carry him, and the party will remain together until it has reached Piedmontese territory. Then you will separate and pretend to conceal86 yourselves, but do it in such a way that you are seen everywhere.” All present comprehended the priest’s simple plan.
They were to throw the emissaries sent by the Duc de Sairmeuse and the Marquis de Courtornieu off the track; and at the very moment it was apparently87 proven that the baron was in the mountains, he would be safe in Poignot’s house.
“One word more,” added the priest. “It will be necessary to make the cortege which accompanies the pretended baron resemble as much as possible the little party that would be likely to attend Monsieur d’Escorval. Mademoiselle Lacheneur will accompany you; Maurice also. People know that I would not leave the baron, who is my friend; my priestly robe would attract attention; one of you must assume it. God will forgive this deception88 on account of its worthy motive89.”
It was now necessary to procure the litter; and the officers were trying to decide where they should go to obtain it, when Corporal Bavois interrupted them.
“Give yourselves no uneasiness,” he remarked; “I know an inn not far from here where I can procure one.”
He departed on the run, and five minutes later reappeared with a small litter, a thin mattress90, and a coverlid. He had thought of everything.
The wounded man was lifted carefully and placed upon the mattress.
A long and difficult operation which, in spite of extreme caution, drew many terrible groans91 from the baron.
When all was ready, each officer took an end of the litter, and the little procession, headed by the abbe, started on its way. They were obliged to proceed slowly on account of the suffering which the least jolting92 inflicted93 upon the baron. Still they made some progress, and by daybreak they were about half way to Poignot’s house.
It was then that they met some peasants going to their daily toil94. Both men and women paused to look at them, and when the little cortege had passed they still stood gazing curiously95 after these people who were apparently carrying a dead body.
The priest did not seem to trouble himself in regard to these encounters; at least, he made no attempt to avoid them.
But he did seem anxious and cautious when, after a three hours’ march, they came in sight of Poignot’s cottage.
Fortunately there was a little grove96 not far from the house. The abbe made the party enter it, recommending the strictest prudence97, while he went on in advance to confer with this man, upon whose decision the safety of the whole party depended.
As the priest approached the house, a small, thin man, with gray hair and a sunburned face emerged from the stable.
It was Father Poignot.
“What! is this you, Monsieur le Cure!” he exclaimed, delightedly. “Heavens! how pleased my wife will be. We have a great favor to ask of you ——”
And then, without giving the abbe an opportunity to open his lips, he began to tell him his perplexities. The night of the revolt he had given shelter to a poor man who had received an ugly sword-thrust. Neither his wife nor himself knew how to dress the wound, and he dared not call in a physician.
“And this wounded man,” he added, “is Jean Lacheneur, the son of my former employer.” A terrible anxiety seized the priest’s heart.
Would this man, who had already given an asylum98 to one wounded conspirator99, consent to receive another?
The abbe’s voice trembled as he made known his petition.
The farmer turned very pale and shook his head gravely, while the priest was speaking. When the abbe had finished:
“Do you know, sir,” he asked, coldly, “that I incur100 a great risk by converting my house into a hospital for these rebels?”
The abbe dared not answer.
“They told me,” Father Poignot continued, “that I was a coward, because I would not take part in the revolt. Such was not my opinion. Now I choose to shelter these wounded men — I shelter them. In my opinion, it requires quite as much courage as it does to go and fight.”
“Ah! you are a brave man!” cried the abbe.
“I know that very well! Bring Monsieur d’Escorval. There is no one here but my wife and boys — no one will betray him!”
A half hour later the baron was lying in a small loft101, where Jean Lacheneur was already installed.
From the window, Abbe Midon and Mme. d’Escorval watched the little cortege, organized for the purpose of deceiving the Duc de Sairmeuse’s spies, as it moved rapidly away.
Corporal Bavois, with his head bound up with bloodstained linen, had taken the baron’s place upon the litter.
This was one of the troubled epochs in history that try men’s souls. There is no chance for hypocrisy102; each man stands revealed in his grandeur103, or in his pettiness of soul.
Certainly much cowardice104 was displayed during the early days of the second Restoration; but many deeds of sublime105 courage and devotion were performed.
These officers who befriended Mme. d’Escorval and Maurice — who lent their aid to the abbe — knew the baron only by name and reputation.
It was sufficient for them to know that he was the friend of their former ruler — the man whom they had made their idol106, and they rejoiced with all their hearts when they saw M. d’Escorval reposing107 under Father Poignot’s roof in comparative security.
After this, their task, which consisted in misleading the government emissaries, seemed to them mere child’s play.
But all these precautions were unnecessary. Public sentiment had declared itself in an unmistakable manner, and it was evident that Lacheneur’s hopes had not been without some foundation.
The police discovered nothing, not so much as a single detail of the escape. They did not even hear of the little party that had travelled nearly three leagues in the full light of day, bearing a wounded man upon a litter.
Among the two thousand peasants who believed that this wounded man was Baron d’Escorval, there was not one who turned informer or let drop an indiscreet word.
But on approaching the frontier, which they knew to be strictly108 guarded, the fugitives109 became even more cautious.
They waited until nightfall before presenting themselves at a lonely inn, where they hoped to procure a guide to lead them through the defiles110 of the mountains.
Frightful news awaited them there. The innkeeper informed them of the bloody111 massacre112 at Montaignac.
With tears rolling down his cheeks, he related the details of the execution, which he had heard from an eyewitness113.
Fortunately, or unfortunately, he knew nothing of M. d’Escorval’s flight or of M. Lacheneur’s arrest.
But he was well acquainted with Chanlouineau, and he was inconsolable over the death of that “handsome young fellow, the best farmer in the country.”
The officers, who had left the litter a short distance from the inn, decided114 that they could confide115 at least a part of their secret to this man.
“We are carrying one of our wounded comrades,” they said to him. “Can you guide us across the frontier to-night?”
The innkeeper replied that he would do so very willingly, that he would promise to take them safely past the military posts; but that he would not think of going upon the mountain before the moon rose.
By midnight the fugitives were en route; by daybreak they set foot on Piedmont territory.
They had dismissed their guide some time before. They now proceeded to break the litter in pieces; and handful by handful they cast the wool of the mattress to the wind.
“Our task is accomplished,” the officer said to Maurice. “We will now return to France. May God protect you! Farewell!”
It was with tears in his eyes that Maurice saw these brave men, who had just saved his father’s life, depart. Now he was the sole protector of Marie-Anne, who, pale and overcome with fatigue116 and emotion, trembled on his arm.
But no — Corporal Bavois still lingered by his side.
“And you, my friend,” he asked, sadly, “what are you going to do?”
“Follow you,” replied the old soldier. “I have a right to a home with you; that was agreed between your father and myself! So do not hurry, the young lady does not seem well, and I see the village only a short distance away.”
收听单词发音 |
1
ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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uneven
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| adj.不平坦的，不规则的，不均匀的 | |
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fissures
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| n.狭长裂缝或裂隙( fissure的名词复数 )；裂伤；分歧；分裂v.裂开( fissure的第三人称单数 ) | |
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crevices
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| n.（尤指岩石的）裂缝，缺口( crevice的名词复数 ) | |
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crevice
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| n.(岩石、墙等)裂缝；缺口 | |
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precipice
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| n.悬崖，危急的处境 | |
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peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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bracing
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| adj.令人振奋的 | |
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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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hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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rebound
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| v.弹回；n.弹回，跳回 | |
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16
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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prudently
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| adv. 谨慎地，慎重地 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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cramp
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| n.痉挛；[pl.](腹)绞痛；vt.限制，束缚 | |
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catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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ruptured
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| v.（使）破裂( rupture的过去式和过去分词 )；（使体内组织等）断裂；使（友好关系）破裂；使绝交 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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filaments
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| n.（电灯泡的）灯丝( filament的名词复数 )；丝极；细丝；丝状物 | |
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hemp
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| n.大麻；纤维 | |
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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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frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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conjectures
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| 推测，猜想( conjecture的名词复数 ) | |
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appalled
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| v.使惊骇，使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的；丧胆的 | |
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29
isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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citadel
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| n.城堡；堡垒；避难所 | |
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growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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jig
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| n.快步舞（曲）；v.上下晃动；用夹具辅助加工；蹦蹦跳跳 | |
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poke
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| n.刺，戳，袋；vt.拨开，刺，戳；vi.戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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dangling
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| 悬吊着( dangle的现在分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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untie
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| vt.解开，松开；解放 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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41
chuckle
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| vi.／n.轻声笑，咯咯笑 | |
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42
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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43
smitten
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| 猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去分词 ) | |
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44
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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45
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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46
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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47
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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48
belly
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| n.肚子，腹部；(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分，膛 | |
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49
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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50
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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51
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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52
perspiration
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| n.汗水；出汗 | |
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53
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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54
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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55
traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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56
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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57
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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58
astounding
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| adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊，使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
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59
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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60
procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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61
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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62
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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63
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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64
flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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bloodiest
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| adj.血污的( bloody的最高级 )；流血的；屠杀的；残忍的 | |
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66
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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67
gushed
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| v.喷，涌( gush的过去式和过去分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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68
hacked
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| 生气 | |
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69
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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70
dexterity
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| n.(手的)灵巧，灵活 | |
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71
stanching
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| v.使（伤口）止血( stanch的现在分词 )；止（血）；使不漏；使不流失 | |
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72
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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73
elicited
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| 引出，探出( elicit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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74
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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75
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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76
stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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77
poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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reverently
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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79
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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80
exigencies
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| n.急切需要 | |
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81
despondent
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| adj.失望的，沮丧的，泄气的 | |
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82
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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83
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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84
awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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85
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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86
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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87
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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88
deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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89
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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90
mattress
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| n.床垫，床褥 | |
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91
groans
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| 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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92
jolting
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| adj.令人震惊的 | |
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93
inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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94
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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95
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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96
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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97
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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98
asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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99
conspirator
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| n.阴谋者，谋叛者 | |
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100
incur
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| vt.招致，蒙受，遭遇 | |
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101
loft
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| n.阁楼，顶楼 | |
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102
hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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103
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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104
cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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105
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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106
idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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107
reposing
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的现在分词 ) | |
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108
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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109
fugitives
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| n.亡命者，逃命者( fugitive的名词复数 ) | |
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110
defiles
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| v.玷污( defile的第三人称单数 )；污染；弄脏；纵列行进 | |
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111
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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112
massacre
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| n.残杀，大屠杀；v.残杀，集体屠杀 | |
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113
eyewitness
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| n.目击者，见证人 | |
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114
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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115
confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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116
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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