The simple oil lamp upon the table threw a weird1, uncertain light over the old room, flickering2 upon the carved oak panelling, and casting strange, fantastic shadows from the high-elbowed, straight-backed furniture. My sister’s white, anxious face stood out in the obscurity with a startling exactness of profile like one of Rembrandt’s portraits.
We sat opposite to each other on either side of the table with no sound breaking the silence save the measured ticking of the clock and the intermittent3 chirping4 of a cricket beneath the grate.
There was something awe-inspiring in the absolute stillness. The whistling of a belated peasant upon the high road was a relief to us, and we strained our ears to catch the last of his notes as he plodded5 steadily6 homewards.
At first we had made some pretence7 — she of knitting and I of reading — but we soon abandoned the useless deception8, and sat uneasily waiting, starting and glancing at each other with questioning eyes whenever the faggot crackled in the fire or a rat scampered9 behind the wainscot. There was a heavy electrical feeling in the air, which weighed us down with a foreboding of disaster.
I rose and flung the hall door open to admit the fresh breeze of the night. Ragged10 clouds swept across the sky, and the moon peeped out at times between their hurrying fringes, bathing the whole countryside in its cold, white radiance. From where I stood in the doorway11 I could see the edge of the Cloomber wood, though the house itself was only visible from the rising ground some little distance off. At my sister’s suggestion we walked together, she with her shawl over her head, as far as the summit of this elevation12, and looked out in the direction of the Hall.
There was no illumination of the windows tonight. From roof to basement not a light twinkled in any part of the great building. Its huge mass loomed13 up dark and sullen14 amid the trees which surrounded it, looking more like some giant sarcophagus than a human habitation.
To our overwrought nerves there was something of terror in its mere15 bulk and its silence. We stood for some little time peering at it through the darkness, and then we made our way back to the parlour again, where we sat waiting — waiting, we knew not for what, and yet with absolute conviction that some terrible experience was in store for us.
It was twelve o’clock or thereabout when my sister suddenly sprang to her feet and held up her fingers to bespeak16 attention.
“Do you hear nothing?” she asked.
I strained my ears, but without success.
“Come to the door,” she cried, with a trembling voice. “Now can you hear anything?”
In the deep silence of the night I distinctly heard a dull, murmuring, clattering19 sound, continuous apparently20, but very faint and low.
“What is it?” I asked, in a subdued21 voice.
“It’s the sound of a man running towards us,” she answered, and then, suddenly dropping the last semblance22 of self-command, she tell upon her knees beside the table and began praying aloud with that frenzied23 earnestness which intense, overpowering fear can produce, breaking off now and again into half-hysterical whimperings.
I could distinguish the sound clearly enough now to know that her quick, feminine perception had not deceived her, and that it was indeed caused by a running man.
On he came, and on down the high road, his footfalls ringing out clearer and sharper every moment. An urgent messenger he must be, for he neither paused nor slackened his pace.
The quick, crisp rattle24 was changed suddenly to a dull, muffled25 murmur17. He had reached the point where sand had been recently laid down for a hundred yards or so. In a few moments, however, he was back on hard ground again and his flying feet came nearer and ever nearer.
He must, I reflected, be abreast26 of the head of the lane now. Would he hold on? Or would he turn down to Branksome?
The thought had hardly crossed my mind when I heard by the difference of the sound that the runner had turned the corner, and that his goal was beyond all question the laird’s house.
Rushing down to the gate of the lawn, I reached it just as our visitor dashed it open and fell into my arms. I could see in the moonlight that it was none other than Mordaunt Heatherstone.
“What has happened?” I cried. “What is amiss, Mordaunt?”
“My father!” he gasped27 —“my father!”
His hat was gone, his eyes dilated28 with terror, and his face as bloodless as that of a corpse29. I could feel that the hands which clasped my arms were quivering and shaking with emotion.
“You are exhausted,” I said, leading him into the parlour. “Give yourself a moment’s rest before you speak to us. Be calm, man, you are with your best friends.”
I laid him on the old horsehair sofa, while Esther, whose fears had all flown to the winds now that something practical was to be done, dashed some brandy into a tumbler and brought it to him. The stimulant30 had a marvellous effect upon him, for the colour began to come back into his pale cheeks and the light of recognition in his eyes,
He sat up and took Esther’s hand in both of his, like a man who is waking out of some bad dream and wishes to assure himself that he is really in safety.
“Your father?” I asked. “What of him?”
“He is gone.”
“Gone!”
“Yes; he is gone; and so is Corporal Rufus Smith. We shall never set eyes upon them again.”
“But where have they gone?” I cried. “This is unworthy of you, Mordaunt. What right have we to sit here, allowing our private feelings to overcome us, while there is a possibility of succouring your father? Up, man! Let us follow him. Tell me only what direction he took.”
“It’s no use,” young Heatherstone answered, burying his face in his hands. “Don’t reproach me, West, for you don’t know all the circumstances. What can we do to reverse the tremendous and unknown laws which are acting32 against us? The blow has long been hanging over us, and now it has fallen. God help us!”
“In Heaven’s name tell me what has happened?” said I excitedly. “We must not yield to despair.”
“We can do nothing until daybreak,” he answered. “We shall then endeavour to obtain some trace of them. It is hopeless at present.”
“And how about Gabriel and Mrs. Heatherstone?” I asked. “Can we not bring them down from the Hall at once? Your poor sister must be distracted with terror.”
“She knows nothing of it,” Mordaunt answered. “She sleeps at the other side of the house, and has not heard or seen anything. As to my poor mother, she has expected some such event for so long a time that it has not come upon her as a surprise. She is, of course, overwhelmed with grief, but would, I think, prefer to be left to herself for the present. Her firmness and composure should be a lesson to me, but I am constitutionally excitable, and this catastrophe33 coming after our long period of suspense34 deprived me of my very reason for a time.”
“If we can do nothing until the morning,” I said, “you have time to tell us all that has occurred.”
“I will do so,” he answered, rising and holding his shaking hands to the fire. “You know already that we have had reason for some time — for many years in fact — to fear that a terrible retribution was hanging over my father’s head for a certain action of his early life. In this action he was associated with the man known as Corporal Rufus Smith, so that the fact of the latter finding his way to my father was a warning to us that the time had come, and that this 5th of October — the anniversary of the misdeed — would be the day of its atonement. I told you of our fears in my letter, and, if I am not mistaken, my father also had some conversation with you, John, upon the subject. When I saw yesterday morning that he had hunted out the old uniform which he had always retained since he wore it in the Afghan war, I was sure that the end was at hand, and that our forebodings would be realised.
“He appeared to be more composed in the afternoon than I have seen him for years, and spoke35 freely of his life in India and of the incidents of his youth. About nine o’clock he requested us to go up to our own rooms, and locked us in there — a precaution which he frequently took when the dark fit way upon him. It was always his endeavour, poor soul. to keep us clear of the curse which had fallen upon his own unfortunate head. Before parting from us he tenderly embraced my mother and Gabriel, and he afterwards followed me to my room, where he clasped my hand affectionately and gave into my charge a small packet addressed to yourself.”
“To me?” I interrupted.
“To you. I shall fulfill36 my commission when I have told you my story. I conjured37 him to allow me to sit up with him and share any danger which might arise, but he implored38 me with irresistible39 earnestness not to add to his troubles by thwarting40 his arrangements. Seeing that I was really distressing41 him by my pertinacity42, I at last allowed him to close the door and to turn the key upon the outside. I shall always reproach myself for my want of firmness. But what can you do when your own father refuses your assistance or co-operation? You cannot force yourself upon him.”
“I am sure that you did all you could do,” my sister said.
“I meant to, dear Esther, but, God help me, it was hard to tell what was right. He left me, and I heard his footsteps die away down the long corridor. It was then about ten o’clock, or a little after. For a time I paced up and down the room, and then, carrying the lamp to the head of my bed, I lay down without undressing, reading St. Thomas a Kempis, and praying from my heart that the night might pass safely over us.
“I had at last fallen into a troubled sleep when I was suddenly aroused by a loud, sonorous43 sound ringing in my ears. I sat up bewildered, but all was silent again. The lamp was burning low, and my watch showed me that it was going on to midnight. I blundered to my feet, and was striking a match with the intention of lighting44 the candles, when the sharp, vehement45 cry broke out again so loud and so clear that it might have been in the very room with me. My chamber46 is in the front of the house, while those of my mother and sister are at the back, so that I am the only one who commands a view of the avenue.
“Rushing to the window I drew the blind aside and looked out. You know that the gravel-drive opens up so as to form a broad stretch immediately in front of the house. Just in the centre of this clear space there stood three men looking up at the house.
“The moon shone full upon them, glistening47 on their upturned eyeballs, and by its light I could see that they were swarthy-faced and black-haired, of a type that I was familiar with among the Sikhs and Afridis. Two of them were thin, with eager, aesthetic48 countenances49, while the third was kinglike and majestic50, with a noble figure and flowing beard.”
“Ram Singh!” I ejaculated.
“What, you know of them?” exclaimed Mordaunt in great surprise. “You have met them?”
“I know of them. They are Buddhist51 priests,” I answered, “but go on.”
“They stood in a line,” he continued, “sweeping their arms upwards52 and downwards53, while their lips moved as if repeating some prayer or incantation. Suddenly they ceased to gesticulate, and broke out for the third time into the wild, weird, piercing cry which had roused me from my slumber54. Never shall I forget that shrill55, dreadful summons swelling56 and reverberating57 through the silent night with an intensity58 of sound which is still ringing in my ears.
“As it died slowly away, there was a rasping and creaking as of keys and bolts, followed by the clang of an opening door and the clatter18 of hurrying feet. From my window I saw my father and Corporal Rufus Smith rush frantically59 out of the house hatless and unkempt, like men who are obeying a sudden and overpowering impulse. The three strangers laid no hands on them, but all five swept swiftly away down the avenue and vanished among the trees. I am positive that no force was used, or constraint60 of any visible kind, and yet I am as sure that my poor father and his companion were helpless prisoners as it I bad seen them dragged away in manacles.
“All this took little time in the acting. From the first summons which disturbed my sleep to the last shadowy glimpse which I had of them between the tree trunks could hardly have occupied more than five minutes of actual time. So sudden was it, and so strange, that when the drama was over and they were gone I could have believed that it was all some terrible nightmare, some delusion61, had I not felt that the impression was too real, too vivid, to be imputed62 to fancy.
“I threw my whole weight against my bedroom door in the hope of forcing the lock. It stood firm for a while, but I flung myself upon it again and again, until something snapped and I found myself in the passage.
“My first thought was for my mother, I rushed to her room and turned the key in her door. The moment that I did so she stepped out into the corridor in her dressing-gown, and held up a warning finger.
“‘No noise, she said,’ Gabriel is asleep. They have been called away?’
“‘They have,’ I answered.
“‘God’s will be done!’ she cried. ‘Your poor father will be happier in the next world than he has ever been in this. Thank Heaven that Gabriel is asleep. I gave her chloral in her cocoa.’
“‘What am I to do?’ I said distractedly.
“‘Where have they gone? How can I help him? We cannot let him go from us like this, or leave these men to do what they will with him. Shall I ride into Wigtown and arouse the police?’
“‘Anything rather than that’, my mother said earnestly. ‘He has begged me again and again to avoid it. My son, we shall never set eyes upon your father again. You may marvel31 at my dry eyes, but it you knew as I know the peace which death would bring him, you could not find it in your heart to mourn for him. All pursuit is, I feel, vain, and yet some pursuit there must be. Let it be as private as possible. We cannot serve him better than by consulting his wishes.’
“‘But every minute is precious,’ I cried. ‘Even now he may be calling upon us to rescue him from the clutches of those dark-skinned fiends.’
“The thought so maddened me that I rushed out of the house and down to the high road, but once there I had no indication in which direction to turn. The whole wide moor63 lay before me, without a sign of movement upon its broad expanse. I listened, but not a sound broke the perfect stillness of the night.
“It was then, my dear friends, as I stood, not knowing in which direction to turn, that the horror and responsibility broke full upon me. I felt that I was combating against forces of which I knew nothing. All was strange and dark and terrible.
“The thought of you, and of the help which I might look for from your advice and assistance, was a beacon64 of hope to me. At Branksome, at least, I should receive sympathy, and, above all, directions as to what I should do, for my mind is in such a whirl that I cannot trust my own judgment65. My mother was content to be alone, my sister asleep, and no prospect66 of being able to do anything until daybreak. Under those circumstances what more natural than that I should fly to you as fast as my feet would carry me? You have a clear head, Jack67; speak out, man, and tell me what I should do. Esther, what should I do?”
He turned from one to the other of us with outstretched hands and eager, questioning eyes.
“You can do nothing while the darkness lasts,” I answered. “We must report the matter to the Wigtown police, but we need not send our message to them until we are actually starting upon the search, so as to comply with the law and yet have a private investigation68, as your mother wishes. John Fullarton, over the hill, has a lurcher dog which is as good as a bloodhound. If we set him on the general’s trail he will run him down if he had to follow him to John o’ Groat’s.”
“It is terrible to wait calmly here while he may need our assistance.”
“I fear our assistance could under any circumstances do him little good. There are forces at work here which are beyond human intervention69. Besides, there is no alternative. We have, apparently, no possible clue as to the direction which they have taken, and for us to wander aimlessly over the moor in the darkness would be to waste the strength which may be more profitably used in the morning. It will be daylight by five o’clock. In an hour or so we can walk over the hill together and get Fullarton’s dog.”
“Another hour!” Mordaunt groaned70, “every minute seems an age.”
“Lie down on the sofa and rest yourself,” said I. “You cannot serve your father better than by laying up all the strength you can, for we may have a weary trudge71 before us. But you mentioned a packet which the general had intended for me.”
“It is here,” he answered, drawing a small, flat parcel from his pocket and handing it over to me, “you will find, no doubt, that it will explain all which has been so mysterious.”
The packet was sealed at each end with black wax, bearing the impress of the flying griffin, which I knew to be the general’s crest72. It was further secured by a band of broad tape, which I cut with my pocket-knife. Across the outside was written in bold handwriting: “J. Fothergill West, Esq.,” and underneath73: “To be handed to that gentleman in the event of the disappearance74 or decease of Major-General J. B. Heatherstone, V.C., C.B., late of the Indian Army.”
So at last I was to know the dark secret which had cast a shadow over our lives. Here in my hands I held the solution of it.
With eager fingers I broke the seals and undid75 the wrapper. A note and a small bundle of discoloured paper lay within. I drew the lamp over to me and opened the former. It was dated the preceding afternoon, and ran in this way:
MY DEAR WEST,—
I should have satisfied your very natural curiosity on the subject which we have had occasion to talk of more than once, but I refrained for your own sake. I knew by sad experience how unsettling and unnerving it is to be for ever waiting for a catastrophe which you are convinced must befall, and which you can neither avert76 nor accelerate.
Though it affects me specially77, as being the person most concerned, I am still conscious that the natural sympathy which I have observed in you, and your regard for Gabriel’s father, would both combine to render you unhappy if you knew the hopelessness and yet the vagueness of the fate which threatens me. I feared to disturb your mind, and I was therefore silent, though at some cost to myself, for my isolation78 has not been the least of the troubles which have weighed me down.
Many signs, however, and chief among them the presence of the Buddhists79 upon the coast as described by you this morning, have convinced me that the weary waiting is at last over and that the hour of retribution is at hand. Why I should have been allowed to live nearly forty years after my offence is more than I can understand, but it is possible that those who had command over my fate know that such a life is the greatest of all penalties to me.
Never for an hour, night or day, have they suffered me to forget that they have marked me down as their victim. Their accursed astral bell has been ringing my knell80 for two-score years, reminding me ever that there is no spot upon earth where I can hope to be in safety. Oh, the peace, the blessed peace of dissolution! Come what may on the other side of the tomb, I shall at least be quit of that thrice terrible sound.
There is no need for me to enter into the wretched business again, or to detail at any length the events of October 5th, 1841, and the various circumstances which led up to the death of Ghoolab Shah, the arch adept81.
I have torn a sheaf of leaves from my old journal, in which you will find a bald account of the matter, and an independent narrative82 was furnished by. Sir Edward Elliott, of the Artillery83, to the Star of India some years ago — in which, however, the names were suppressed.
I have reason to believe that many people, even among those who knew India well, thought that Sir Edward was romancing, and that he had evolved his incidents from his imagination. The few faded sheets which I send you will show you that this is not the case, and that our men of science must recognise powers and laws which can and have been used by man, but which are unknown to European civilisation84.
I do not wish to whine85 or to whimper, but I cannot help feeling that I have had hard measure dealt me in this world. I would not, God knows, take the life of any man, far less an aged86 one, in cold blood. My temper and nature, however, were always fiery87 and headstrong, and in action when my blood is up, I have no knowledge of what I am about. Neither the corporal nor I would have laid a finger upon Ghoolab Shah had we not seen that the tribesmen were rallying behind him. Well, well, it is an old story now, and there is no profit in discussing it. May no other poor fellow ever have the same evil fortune!
I have written a short supplement to the statements contained in my journal for your information and that of any one else who may chance to be interested in the matter.
And now, adieu! Be a good husband to Gabriel, and, if your sister be brave enough to marry into such a devil-ridden family as ours, by all means let her do so. I have left enough to keep my poor wife in comfort.
When she rejoins me I should wish it to be equally divided between the children. If you hear that I am gone, do not pity, but congratulate
Your unfortunate friend,
JOHN BERTHIER HEATHERSTONE.
I threw aside the letter and picked up the roll of blue foolscap which contained the solution of the mystery. It was all ragged and frayed88 at the inner edge, with traces of gum and thread still adhering to it, to show that it had been torn out of a strongly bound volume. The ink with which it had been written was faded somewhat, but across the head of the first page was inscribed89 in bold, clear characters, evidently of later date than the rest: “Journal of Lieutenant90 J. B. Heatherstone in the Thull Valley during the autumn of 1841,” and then underneath:
This extract contains some account of the events of the first week of October of that year, including the skirmish of the Terada ravine and the death of the man Ghoolab Shah.
I have the narrative lying before me now, and I copy it verbatim. If it contains some matter which has no direct bearing upon the question at issue, I can only say that I thought it better to publish what is irrelevant91 than by cutting and clipping to lay the whole statement open to the charge of having been tampered92 with.
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1
weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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intermittent
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| adj.间歇的，断断续续的 | |
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chirping
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| 鸟叫，虫鸣( chirp的现在分词 ) | |
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plodded
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| 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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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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scampered
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| v.蹦蹦跳跳地跑，惊惶奔跑( scamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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loomed
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| v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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bespeak
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| v.预定；预先请求 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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clattering
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的现在分词形式） | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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frenzied
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| a.激怒的；疯狂的 | |
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rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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abreast
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| adv.并排地；跟上(时代)的步伐，与…并进地 | |
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gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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dilated
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| adj.加宽的，扩大的v.（使某物）扩大，膨胀，张大( dilate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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stimulant
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| n.刺激物，兴奋剂 | |
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marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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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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fulfill
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| vt.履行，实现，完成；满足，使满意 | |
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conjured
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| 用魔术变出( conjure的过去式和过去分词 )； 祈求，恳求； 变戏法； （变魔术般地） 使…出现 | |
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implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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thwarting
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| 阻挠( thwart的现在分词 )； 使受挫折； 挫败； 横过 | |
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distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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42
pertinacity
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| n.执拗，顽固 | |
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sonorous
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| adj.响亮的，回响的；adv.圆润低沉地；感人地；n.感人，堂皇 | |
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lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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aesthetic
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| adj.美学的，审美的，有美感 | |
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49
countenances
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| n.面容( countenance的名词复数 )；表情；镇静；道义支持 | |
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majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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51
Buddhist
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| adj./n.佛教的，佛教徒 | |
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52
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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53
downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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54
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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reverberating
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| 回响，回荡( reverberate的现在分词 )； 使反响，使回荡，使反射 | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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frantically
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| ad.发狂地, 发疯地 | |
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constraint
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| n.(on)约束，限制；限制(或约束)性的事物 | |
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delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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imputed
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| v.把（错误等）归咎于( impute的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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63
moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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beacon
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| n.烽火，（警告用的）闪火灯，灯塔 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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intervention
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| n.介入，干涉，干预 | |
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groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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trudge
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| v.步履艰难地走；n.跋涉，费力艰难的步行 | |
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crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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Undid
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| v. 解开, 复原 | |
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avert
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| v.防止，避免；转移(目光、注意力等) | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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Buddhists
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| n.佛教徒( Buddhist的名词复数 ) | |
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80
knell
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| n.丧钟声；v.敲丧钟 | |
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adept
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| adj.老练的，精通的 | |
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82
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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83
artillery
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| n.(军)火炮，大炮；炮兵(部队) | |
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84
civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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85
whine
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| v.哀号，号哭；n.哀鸣 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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88
frayed
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| adj.磨损的v.（使布、绳等）磨损，磨破( fray的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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lieutenant
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| n.陆军中尉，海军上尉；代理官员，副职官员 | |
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irrelevant
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| adj.不恰当的，无关系的，不相干的 | |
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tampered
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| v.窜改( tamper的过去式 )；篡改；（用不正当手段）影响；瞎摆弄 | |
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