Full busylie unto his work ybent,
Who was to weet a wretched wearish elf,
With hollow eyes and rawbone cheeks forspent,
As if he had been long in prison pent.
The Faery Queene.
“Are we far from the dwelling1 of this smith, my pretty lad?” said Tressilian to his young guide.
“How is it you call me?” said the boy, looking askew2 at him with his sharp, grey eyes.
“I call you my pretty lad — is there any offence in that, my boy?”
“No; but were you with my grandam and Dominie Holiday, you might sing chorus to the old song of
‘We three
Tom-fools be.’”
“And why so, my little man?” said Tressilian.
“Because,” answered the ugly urchin3, “you are the only three ever called me pretty lad. Now my grandam does it because she is parcel blind by age, and whole blind by kindred; and my master, the poor Dominie, does it to curry4 favour, and have the fullest platter of furmity and the warmest seat by the fire. But what you call me pretty lad for, you know best yourself.”
“Thou art a sharp wag at least, if not a pretty one. But what do thy playfellows call thee?”
“Hobgoblin,” answered the boy readily; “but for all that, I would rather have my own ugly viznomy than any of their jolter-heads, that have no more brains in them than a brick-bat.”
“Then you fear not this smith whom you are going to see?”
“Me fear him!” answered the boy. “If he were the devil folk think him, I would not fear him; but though there is something queer about him, he’s no more a devil than you are, and that’s what I would not tell to every one.”
“And why do you tell it to me, then, my boy?” said Tressilian.
“Because you are another guess gentleman than those we see here every day,” replied Dickie; “and though I am as ugly as sin, I would not have you think me an ass5, especially as I may have a boon6 to ask of you one day.”
“And what is that, my lad, whom I must not call pretty?” replied Tressilian.
“Oh, if I were to ask it just now,” said the boy, “you would deny it me; but I will wait till we meet at court.”
“At court, Richard! are you bound for court?” said Tressilian.
“Ay, ay, that’s just like the rest of them,” replied the boy. “I warrant me, you think, what should such an ill-favoured, scrambling8 urchin do at court? But let Richard Sludge alone; I have not been cock of the roost here for nothing. I will make sharp wit mend foul9 feature.”
“But what will your grandam say, and your tutor, Dominie Holiday?”
“E’en what they like,” replied Dickie; “the one has her chickens to reckon, and the other has his boys to whip. I would have given them the candle to hold long since, and shown this trumpery10 hamlet a fair pair of heels, but that Dominie promises I should go with him to bear share in the next pageant11 he is to set forth12, and they say there are to be great revels13 shortly.”
“And whereabouts are they to be held, my little friend?” said Tressilian.
“Oh, at some castle far in the north,” answered his guide —“a world’s breadth from Berkshire. But our old Dominie holds that they cannot go forward without him; and it may be he is right, for he has put in order many a fair pageant. He is not half the fool you would take him for, when he gets to work he understands; and so he can spout14 verses like a play-actor, when, God wot, if you set him to steal a goose’s egg, he would be drubbed by the gander.”
“And you are to play a part in his next show?” said Tressilian, somewhat interested by the boy’s boldness of conversation and shrewd estimate of character.
“In faith,” said Richard Sludge, in answer, “he hath so promised me; and if he break his word, it will be the worse for him, for let me take the bit between my teeth, and turn my head downhill, and I will shake him off with a fall that may harm his bones. And I should not like much to hurt him neither,” said he, “for the tiresome15 old fool has painfully laboured to teach me all he could. But enough of that — here are we at Wayland Smith’s forge-door.”
“You jest, my little friend,” said Tressilian; “here is nothing but a bare moor17, and that ring of stones, with a great one in the midst, like a Cornish barrow.”
“Ay, and that great flat stone in the midst, which lies across the top of these uprights,” said the boy, “is Wayland Smith’s counter, that you must tell down your money upon.”
“What do you mean by such folly18?” said the traveller, beginning to be angry with the boy, and vexed19 with himself for having trusted such a hare-brained guide.
“Why,” said Dickie, with a grin, “you must tie your horse to that upright stone that has the ring in’t, and then you must whistle three times, and lay me down your silver groat on that other flat stone, walk out of the circle, sit down on the west side of that little thicket20 of bushes, and take heed21 you look neither to right nor to left for ten minutes, or so long as you shall hear the hammer clink, and whenever it ceases, say your prayers for the space you could tell a hundred — or count over a hundred, which will do as well — and then come into the circle; you will find your money gone and your horse shod.”
“My money gone to a certainty!” said Tressilian; “but as for the rest — Hark ye, my lad, I am not your school-master, but if you play off your waggery on me, I will take a part of his task off his hands, and punish you to purpose.”
“Ay, when you catch me!” said the boy; and presently took to his heels across the heath, with a velocity22 which baffled every attempt of Tressilian to overtake him, loaded as he was with his heavy boots. Nor was it the least provoking part of the urchin’s conduct, that he did not exert his utmost speed, like one who finds himself in danger, or who is frightened, but preserved just such a rate as to encourage Tressilian to continue the chase, and then darted23 away from him with the swiftness of the wind, when his pursuer supposed he had nearly run him down, doubling at the same time, and winding24, so as always to keep near the place from which he started.
This lasted until Tressilian, from very weariness, stood still, and was about to abandon the pursuit with a hearty25 curse on the ill-favoured urchin, who had engaged him in an exercise so ridiculous. But the boy, who had, as formerly26, planted himself on the top of a hillock close in front, began to clap his long, thin hands, point with his skinny fingers, and twist his wild and ugly features into such an extravagant27 expression of laughter and derision, that Tressilian began half to doubt whether he had not in view an actual hobgoblin.
Provoked extremely, yet at the same time feeling an irresistible28 desire to laugh, so very odd were the boy’s grimaces29 and gesticulations, the Cornishman returned to his horse, and mounted him with the purpose of pursuing Dickie at more advantage.
The boy no sooner saw him mount his horse, than he holloed out to him that, rather than he should spoil his white-footed nag30, he would come to him, on condition he would keep his fingers to himself.
“I will make no conditions with thee, thou ugly varlet!” said Tressilian; “I will have thee at my mercy in a moment.”
“Aha, Master Traveller,” said the boy, “there is a marsh31 hard by would swallow all the horses of the Queen’s guard. I will into it, and see where you will go then. You shall hear the bittern bump, and the wild-drake quack32, ere you get hold of me without my consent, I promise you.”
Tressilian looked out, and, from the appearance of the ground behind the hillock, believed it might be as the boy said, and accordingly determined33 to strike up a peace with so light-footed and ready-witted an enemy. “Come down,” he said, “thou mischievous34 brat35! Leave thy mopping and mowing36, and, come hither.
I will do thee no harm, as I am a gentleman.”
The boy answered his invitation with the utmost confidence, and danced down from his stance with a galliard sort of step, keeping his eye at the same time fixed37 on Tressilian’s, who, once more dismounted, stood with his horse’s bridle38 in his hand, breathless, and half exhausted39 with his fruitless exercise, though not one drop of moisture appeared on the freckled40 forehead of the urchin, which looked like a piece of dry and discoloured parchment, drawn41 tight across the brow of a fleshless skull42.
“And tell me,” said Tressilian, “why you use me thus, thou mischievous imp43? or what your meaning is by telling me so absurd a legend as you wished but now to put on me? Or rather show me, in good earnest, this smith’s forge, and I will give thee what will buy thee apples through the whole winter.”
“Were you to give me an orchard44 of apples,” said Dickie Sludge, “I can guide thee no better than I have done. Lay down the silver token on the flat stone — whistle three times — then come sit down on the western side of the thicket of gorse. I will sit by you, and give you free leave to wring45 my head off, unless you hear the smith at work within two minutes after we are seated.”
“I may be tempted46 to take thee at thy word,” said Tressilian, “if you make me do aught half so ridiculous for your own mischievous sport; however, I will prove your spell. Here, then, I tie my horse to this upright stone. I must lay my silver groat here, and whistle three times, sayest thou?”
“Ay, but thou must whistle louder than an unfledged ousel,” said the boy, as Tressilian, having laid down his money, and half ashamed of the folly he practised, made a careless whistle —“you must whistle louder than that, for who knows where the smith is that you call for? He may be in the King of France’s stables for what I know.”
“Why, you said but now he was no devil,” replied Tressilian.
“Man or devil,” said Dickie, “I see that I must summon him for you;” and therewithal he whistled sharp and shrill47, with an acuteness of sound that almost thrilled through Tressilian’s brain. “That is what I call whistling,” said he, after he had repeated the signal thrice; “and now to cover, to cover, or Whitefoot will not be shod this day.”
Tressilian, musing48 what the upshot of this mummery was to be, yet satisfied there was to be some serious result, by the confidence with which the boy had put himself in his power, suffered himself to be conducted to that side of the little thicket of gorse and brushwood which was farthest from the circle of stones, and there sat down; and as it occurred to him that, after all, this might be a trick for stealing his horse, he kept his hand on the boy’s collar, determined to make him hostage for its safety.
“Now, hush49 and listen,” said Dickie, in a low whisper; “you will soon hear the tack50 of a hammer that was never forged of earthly iron, for the stone it was made of was shot from the moon.” And in effect Tressilian did immediately hear the light stroke of a hammer, as when a farrier is at work. The singularity of such a sound, in so very lonely a place, made him involuntarily start; but looking at the boy, and discovering, by the arch malicious51 expression of his countenance52, that the urchin saw and enjoyed his slight tremor53, he became convinced that the whole was a concerted stratagem54, and determined to know by whom, or for what purpose, the trick was played off.
Accordingly, he remained perfectly55 quiet all the time that the hammer continued to sound, being about the space usually employed in fixing a horse-shoe. But the instant the sound ceased, Tressilian, instead of interposing the space of time which his guide had required, started up with his sword in his hand, ran round the thicket, and confronted a man in a farrier’s leathern apron56, but otherwise fantastically attired57 in a bear-skin dressed with the fur on, and a cap of the same, which almost hid the sooty and begrimed features of the wearer. “Come back, come back!” cried the boy to Tressilian, “or you will be torn to pieces; no man lives that looks on him.” In fact, the invisible smith (now fully16 visible) heaved up his hammer, and showed symptoms of doing battle.
But when the boy observed that neither his own entreaties58 nor the menaces of the farrier appeared to change Tressilian’s purpose, but that, on the contrary, he confronted the hammer with his drawn sword, he exclaimed to the smith in turn, “Wayland, touch him not, or you will come by the worse!— the gentleman is a true gentleman, and a bold.”
“So thou hast betrayed me, Flibbertigibbet?” said the smith; “it shall be the worse for thee!”
“Be who thou wilt,” said Tressilian, “thou art in no danger from me, so thou tell me the meaning of this practice, and why thou drivest thy trade in this mysterious fashion.”
The smith, however, turning to Tressilian, exclaimed, in a threatening tone, “Who questions the Keeper of the Crystal Castle of Light, the Lord of the Green Lion, the Rider of the Red Dragon? Hence!— avoid thee, ere I summon Talpack with his fiery60 lance, to quell61, crush, and consume!” These words he uttered with violent gesticulation, mouthing, and flourishing his hammer.
“Peace, thou vile62 cozener63, with thy gipsy cant64!” replied Tressilian scornfully, “and follow me to the next magistrate65, or I will cut thee over the pate66.”
“Peace, I pray thee, good Wayland!” said the boy. “Credit me, the swaggering vein67 will not pass here; you must cut boon whids.”9
“I think, worshipful sir,” said the smith, sinking his hammer, and assuming a more gentle and submissive tone of voice, “that when so poor a man does his day’s job, he might be permitted to work it out after his own fashion. Your horse is shod, and your farrier paid — what need you cumber68 yourself further than to mount and pursue your journey?”
“Nay, friend, you are mistaken,” replied Tressilian; “every man has a right to take the mask from the face of a cheat and a juggler69; and your mode of living raises suspicion that you are both.”
“If you are so determined; sir,” said the smith, “I cannot help myself save by force, which I were unwilling70 to use towards you, Master Tressilian; not that I fear your weapon, but because I know you to be a worthy71, kind, and well-accomplished gentleman, who would rather help than harm a poor man that is in a strait.”
“Well said, Wayland,” said the boy, who had anxiously awaited the issue of their conference. “But let us to thy den7, man, for it is ill for thy health to stand here talking in the open air.”
“Thou art right, Hobgoblin,” replied the smith; and going to the little thicket of gorse on the side nearest to the circle, and opposite to that at which his customer had so lately crouched72, he discovered a trap-door curiously73 covered with bushes, raised it, and, descending74 into the earth, vanished from their eyes. Notwithstanding Tressilian’s curiosity, he had some hesitation75 at following the fellow into what might be a den of robbers, especially when he heard the smith’s voice, issuing from the bowels76 of the earth, call out, “Flibertigibbet, do you come last, and be sure to fasten the trap!”
“Have you seen enough of Wayland Smith now?” whispered the urchin to Tressilian, with an arch sneer77, as if marking his companion’s uncertainty78.
“Not yet,” said Tressilian firmly; and shaking off his momentary79 irresolution80, he descended81 into the narrow staircase, to which the entrance led, and was followed by Dickie Sludge, who made fast the trap-door behind him, and thus excluded every glimmer82 of daylight. The descent, however, was only a few steps, and led to a level passage of a few yards’ length, at the end of which appeared the reflection of a lurid83 and red light. Arrived at this point, with his drawn sword in his hand, Tressilian found that a turn to the left admitted him and Hobgoblin, who followed closely, into a small, square vault84, containing a smith’s forge, glowing with charcoal85, the vapour of which filled the apartment with an oppressive smell, which would have been altogether suffocating86, but that by some concealed87 vent88 the smithy communicated with the upper air. The light afforded by the red fuel, and by a lamp suspended in an iron chain, served to show that, besides an anvil89, bellows90, tongs91, hammers, a quantity of ready-made horse-shoes, and other articles proper to the profession of a farrier, there were also stoves, alembics, crucibles92, retorts, and other instruments of alchemy. The grotesque93 figure of the smith, and the ugly but whimsical features of the boy, seen by the gloomy and imperfect light of the charcoal fire and the dying lamp, accorded very well with all this mystical apparatus94, and in that age of superstition95 would have made some impression on the courage of most men.
But nature had endowed Tressilian with firm nerves, and his education, originally good, had been too sedulously96 improved by subsequent study to give way to any imaginary terrors; and after giving a glance around him, he again demanded of the artist who he was, and by what accident he came to know and address him by his name.
“Your worship cannot but remember,” said the smith, “that about three years since, upon Saint Lucy’s Eve, there came a travelling juggler to a certain hall in Devonshire, and exhibited his skill before a worshipful knight97 and a fair company.— I see from your worship’s countenance, dark as this place is, that my memory has not done me wrong.”
“Thou hast said enough,” said Tressilian, turning away, as wishing to hide from the speaker the painful train of recollections which his discourse98 had unconsciously awakened99.
“The juggler,” said the smith, “played his part so bravely that the clowns and clown-like squires100 in the company held his art to be little less than magical; but there was one maiden101 of fifteen, or thereby102, with the fairest face I ever looked upon, whose rosy103 cheek grew pale, and her bright eyes dim, at the sight of the wonders exhibited.”
“Peace, I command thee, peace!” said Tressilian.
“I mean your worship no offence,” said the fellow; “but I have cause to remember how, to relieve the young maiden’s fears, you condescended104 to point out the mode in which these deceptions105 were practised, and to baffle the poor juggler by laying bare the mysteries of his art, as ably as if you had been a brother of his order.— She was indeed so fair a maiden that, to win a smile of her, a man might well —”
“Not a word more of her, I charge thee!” said Tressilian. “I do well remember the night you speak of — one of the few happy evenings my life has known.”
“She is gone, then,” said the smith, interpreting after his own fashion the sigh with which Tressilian uttered these words —“she is gone, young, beautiful, and beloved as she was!— I crave106 your worship’s pardon — I should have hammered on another theme. I see I have unwarily driven the nail to the quick.”
This speech was made with a mixture of rude feeling which inclined Tressilian favourably107 to the poor artisan, of whom before he was inclined to judge very harshly. But nothing can so soon attract the unfortunate as real or seeming sympathy with their sorrows.
“I think,” proceeded Tressilian, after a minute’s silence, “thou wert in those days a jovial108 fellow, who could keep a company merry by song, and tale, and rebeck, as well as by thy juggling109 tricks — why do I find thee a laborious110 handicraftsman, plying111 thy trade in so melancholy112 a dwelling and under such extraordinary circumstances?”
“My story is not long,” said the artist, “but your honour had better sit while you listen to it.” So saying, he approached to the fire a three-footed stool, and took another himself; while Dickie Sludge, or Flibbertigibbet, as he called the boy, drew a cricket to the smith’s feet, and looked up in his face with features which, as illuminated113 by the glow of the forge, seemed convulsed with intense curiosity. “Thou too,” said the smith to him, “shalt learn, as thou well deservest at my hand, the brief history of my life; and, in troth, it were as well tell it thee as leave thee to ferret it out, since Nature never packed a shrewder wit into a more ungainly casket.— Well, sir, if my poor story may pleasure you, it is at your command, But will you not taste a stoup of liquor? I promise you that even in this poor cell I have some in store.”
“Speak not of it,” said Tressilian, “but go on with thy story, for my leisure is brief.”
“You shall have no cause to rue59 the delay,” said the smith, “for your horse shall be better fed in the meantime than he hath been this morning, and made fitter for travel.”
With that the artist left the vault, and returned after a few minutes’ interval114. Here, also, we pause, that the narrative115 may commence in another chapter.
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1
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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2
askew
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| adv.斜地；adj.歪斜的 | |
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3
urchin
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| n.顽童；海胆 | |
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4
curry
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| n.咖哩粉，咖哩饭菜；v.用咖哩粉调味，用马栉梳，制革 | |
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5
ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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boon
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| n.恩赐，恩物，恩惠 | |
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den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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8
scrambling
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的现在分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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10
trumpery
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| n.无价值的杂物；adj.（物品）中看不中用的 | |
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11
pageant
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| n.壮观的游行；露天历史剧 | |
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12
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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13
revels
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| n.作乐( revel的名词复数 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉v.作乐( revel的第三人称单数 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉 | |
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spout
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| v.喷出，涌出；滔滔不绝地讲；n.喷管；水柱 | |
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15
tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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thicket
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| n.灌木丛，树林 | |
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heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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velocity
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| n.速度，速率 | |
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darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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grimaces
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| n.（表蔑视、厌恶等）面部扭曲，鬼脸( grimace的名词复数 )v.扮鬼相，做鬼脸( grimace的第三人称单数 ) | |
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nag
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| v.(对…)不停地唠叨；n.爱唠叨的人 | |
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marsh
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| n.沼泽，湿地 | |
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quack
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| n.庸医；江湖医生；冒充内行的人；骗子 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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brat
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| n.孩子；顽童 | |
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mowing
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| n.割草，一次收割量，牧草地v.刈，割( mow的现在分词 ) | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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bridle
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| n.笼头，束缚；vt.抑制，约束；动怒 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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freckled
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| adj.雀斑；斑点；晒斑；（使）生雀斑v.雀斑，斑点( freckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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42
skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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imp
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| n.顽童 | |
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44
orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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45
wring
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| n.扭绞；v.拧，绞出，扭 | |
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46
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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47
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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48
musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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49
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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50
tack
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| n.大头钉；假缝，粗缝 | |
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51
malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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52
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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53
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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54
stratagem
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| n.诡计，计谋 | |
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55
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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56
apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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57
attired
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| adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服，使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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58
entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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59
rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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60
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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61
quell
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| v.压制，平息，减轻 | |
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vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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63
cozener
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| n.烈酒 | |
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64
cant
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| n.斜穿，黑话，猛扔 | |
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65
magistrate
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| n.地方行政官，地方法官，治安官 | |
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66
pate
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| n.头顶；光顶 | |
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67
vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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68
cumber
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| v.拖累，妨碍；n.妨害；拖累 | |
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69
juggler
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| n. 变戏法者, 行骗者 | |
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70
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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72
crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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74
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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75
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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76
bowels
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| n.肠，内脏，内部；肠( bowel的名词复数 )；内部，最深处 | |
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sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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78
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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80
irresolution
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| n.不决断，优柔寡断，犹豫不定 | |
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81
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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82
glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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83
lurid
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| adj.可怕的；血红的；苍白的 | |
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84
vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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85
charcoal
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| n.炭，木炭，生物炭 | |
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86
suffocating
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| a.使人窒息的 | |
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87
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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88
vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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89
anvil
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| n.铁钻 | |
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90
bellows
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| n.风箱；发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的名词复数 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫v.发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的第三人称单数 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫 | |
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91
tongs
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| n.钳；夹子 | |
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92
crucibles
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| n.坩埚，严酷的考验（ crucible的名词复数 ） | |
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93
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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94
apparatus
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| n.装置，器械；器具，设备 | |
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95
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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96
sedulously
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| ad.孜孜不倦地 | |
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97
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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98
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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99
awakened
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| 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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100
squires
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| n.地主，乡绅( squire的名词复数 ) | |
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101
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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102
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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103
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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104
condescended
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的过去式和过去分词 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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105
deceptions
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| 欺骗( deception的名词复数 )； 骗术，诡计 | |
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106
crave
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| vt.渴望得到，迫切需要，恳求，请求 | |
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107
favourably
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| adv. 善意地，赞成地 =favorably | |
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108
jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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109
juggling
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| n. 欺骗, 杂耍(=jugglery) adj. 欺骗的, 欺诈的 动词juggle的现在分词 | |
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110
laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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111
plying
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| v.使用（工具）( ply的现在分词 )；经常供应（食物、饮料）；固定往来；经营生意 | |
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112
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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113
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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114
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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115
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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