The little chemist cautiously felt the edges of the shot-hole, first with his middle finger, and then with his thumb.
Max Fortin picked it up from the sod.
"It's like all the others," he repeated, wiping his glasses on his handkerchief. "I thought you might care to see one of the skulls4, so I brought this over from the gravel5 pit. The men from Bannalec are digging yet. They ought to stop."
"How many skulls are there altogether?" I inquired.
"They found thirty-eight skulls; there are thirty-nine noted6 in the list. They lie piled up in the gravel pit on the edge of Le Bihan's wheat field. The men are at work yet. Le Bihan is going to stop them."
"Let's go over," said I; and I picked up my gun and started across the cliffs, Portin on one side, Môme on the other.
"The list was found rolled up in a brass8 cylinder9," said the chemist. He added: "You should not smoke here. You know that if a single spark drifted into the wheat—"
"Ah, but I have a cover to my pipe," said I, smiling.
Fortin watched me as I closed the pepper-box arrangement over the glowing bowl of the pipe. Then he continued:
"The list was made out on thick yellow paper; the brass tube has preserved it. It is as fresh to-day as it was in 1760. You shall see it."
"Is that the date?"
"The list is dated 'April, 1760.' The Brigadier Durand has it. It is not written in French."
"Not written in French!" I exclaimed.
"No," replied Fortin solemnly, "it is written in Breton."
"But," I protested, "the Breton language was never written or printed in 1760."
"Except by priests," said the chemist.
"I have heard of but one priest who ever wrote the Breton language," I began.
Fortin stole a glance at my face.
"You mean—the Black Priest?" he asked.
I nodded.
Fortin opened his mouth to speak again, hesitated, and finally shut his teeth obstinately11 over the wheat stem that he was chewing.
"And the Black Priest?" I suggested encouragingly. But I knew it was useless; for it is easier to move the stars from their courses than to make an obstinate10 Breton talk. We walked on for a minute or two in silence.
"Where is the Brigadier Durand?" I asked, motioning Môme to come out of the wheat, which he was trampling12 as though it were heather. As I spoke13 we came in sight of the farther edge of the wheat field and the dark, wet mass of cliffs beyond.
"Durand is down there—you can see him; he stands just behind the mayor of St. Gildas."
"I see," said I; and we struck straight down, following a sun-baked cattle path across the heather.
When we reached the edge of the wheat field, Le Bihan, the mayor of St. Gildas, called to me, and I tucked my gun under my arm and skirted the wheat to where he stood.
"Thirty-eight skulls," he said in his thin, high-pitched voice; "there is but one more, and I am opposed to further search. I suppose Fortin told you?"
"I am opposed to further search," repeated Le Bihan, nervously15 picking at the mass of silver buttons which covered the front of his velvet17 and broadcloth jacket like a breastplate of scale armor.
Durand pursed up his lips, twisted his tremendous mustache, and hooked his thumbs in his saber belt.
"As for me," he said, "I am in favor of further search."
"Further search for what—for the thirty-ninth skull?" I asked.
Le Bihan nodded. Durand frowned at the sunlit sea, rocking like a bowl of molten gold from the cliffs to the horizon. I followed his eyes. On the dark glistening18 cliffs, silhouetted19 against the glare of the sea, sat a cormorant20, black, motionless, its horrible head raised toward heaven.
"Where is that list, Durand?" I asked.
The gendarme21 rummaged22 in his despatch23 pouch25 and produced a brass cylinder about a foot long. Very gravely he unscrewed the head and dumped out a scroll26 of thick yellow paper closely covered with writing on both sides. At a nod from Le Bihan he handed me the scroll. But I could make nothing of the coarse writing, now faded to a dull brown.
"Come, come, Le Bihan," I said impatiently, "translate it, won't you? You and Max Fortin make a lot of mystery out of nothing, it seems."
Le Bihan went to the edge of the pit where the three Bannalec men were digging, gave an order or two in Breton, and turned to me.
As I came to the edge of the pit the Bannalec men were removing a square piece of sailcloth from what appeared to be a pile of cobblestones.
"Look!" said Le Bihan shrilly28. I looked. The pile below was a heap of skulls. After a moment I clambered down the gravel sides of the pit and walked over to the men of Bannalec. They saluted29 me gravely, leaning on their picks and shovels30, and wiping their sweating faces with sunburned hands.
"How many?" said I in Breton.
"Thirty-eight," they replied.
I glanced around. Beyond the heap of skulls lay two piles of human bones. Beside these was a mound of broken, rusted31 bits of iron and steel. Looking closer, I saw that this mound was composed of rusty32 bayonets, saber blades, scythe33 blades, with here and there a tarnished34 buckle35 attached to a bit of leather hard as iron.
I picked up a couple of buttons and a belt plate. The buttons bore the royal arms of England; the belt plate was emblazoned with the English arms and also with the number "27."
"I have heard my grandfather speak of the terrible English regiment36, the 27th Foot, which landed and stormed the fort up there," said one of the Bannalec men.
"Oh!" said I; "then these are the bones of English soldiers?"
"Yes," said the men of Bannalec.
Le Bihan was calling to me from the edge of the pit above, and I handed the belt plate and buttons to the men and climbed the side of the excavation37.
"Well," said I, trying to prevent Môme from leaping up and licking my face as I emerged from the pit, "I suppose you know what these bones are. What are you going to do with them?"
"There was a man," said Le Bihan angrily, "an Englishman, who passed here in a dog-cart on his way to Quimper about an hour ago, and what do you suppose he wished to do?"
"Exactly—the pig!" piped the mayor of St. Gildas. "Jean Marie Tregunc, who found the bones, was standing40 there where Max Fortin stands, and do you know what he answered? He spat24 upon the ground, and said: 'Pig of an Englishman, do you take me for a desecrator41 of graves?'"
I knew Tregunc, a sober, blue-eyed Breton, who lived from one year's end to the other without being able to afford a single bit of meat for a meal.
"How much did the Englishman offer Tregunc?" I asked.
"Two hundred francs for the skulls alone."
"Seventeen hundred and sixty is long ago," I said.
"Respect for the dead can never die," said Fortin.
"And the English soldiers came here to kill your fathers and burn your homes," I continued.
"They were murderers and thieves, but—they are dead," said Tregunc, coming up from the beach below, his long sea rake balanced on his dripping jersey42.
"How much do you earn every year, Jean Marie?" I asked, turning to shake hands with him.
"Two hundred and twenty francs, monsieur."
"Forty-five dollars a year," I said. "Bah! you are worth more, Jean. Will you take care of my garden for me? My wife wished me to ask you. I think it would be worth one hundred francs a month to you and to me. Come on, Le Bihan—come along, Fortin—and you, Durand. I want somebody to translate that list into French for me."
"You may begin at once," I said, smiling, "if the salary suits you?"
"Then go and begin your work," cried the mayor impatiently; and Tregunc started across the moors45 toward St. Gildas, taking off his velvet-ribboned cap to me and gripping his sea rake very hard.
"You offer him more than my salary," said the mayor, after a moment's contemplation of his silver buttons.
"Pooh!" said I, "what do you do for your salary except play dominoes with Max Portin at the Groix Inn?"
Le Bihan turned red, but Durand rattled47 his saber and winked48 at Max Fortin, and I slipped my arm through the arm of the sulky magistrate49, laughing.
"There's a shady spot under the cliff," I said; "come on, Le Bihan, and read me what is in the scroll."
In a few moments we reached the shadow of the cliff, and I threw myself upon the turf, chin on hand, to listen.
The gendarme, Durand, also sat down, twisting his mustache into needlelike points. Fortin leaned against the cliff, polishing his glasses and examining us with vague, near-sighted eyes; and Le Bihan, the mayor, planted himself in our midst, rolling up the scroll and tucking it under his arm.
"First of all," he began in a shrill27 voice, "I am going to light my pipe, and while lighting it I shall tell you what I have heard about the attack on the fort yonder. My father told me; his father told him."
He jerked his head in the direction of the ruined fort, a small, square stone structure on the sea cliff, now nothing but crumbling50 walls. Then he slowly produced a tobacco pouch, a bit of flint and tinder, and a long-stemmed pipe fitted with a microscopical51 bowl of baked clay. To fill such a pipe requires ten minutes' close attention. To smoke it to a finish takes but four puffs52. It is very Breton, this Breton pipe. It is the crystallization of everything Breton.
"Go on," said I, lighting a cigarette.
"The fort," said the mayor, "was built by Louis XIV, and was dismantled53 twice by the English. Louis XV restored it in 1730. In 1760 it was carried by assault by the English. They came across from the island of Groix—three shiploads, and they stormed the fort and sacked St. Julien yonder, and they started to burn St. Gildas—you can see the marks of their bullets on my house yet; but the men of Bannalec and the men of Lorient fell upon them with pike and scythe and blunderbuss, and those who did not run away lie there below in the gravel pit now—thirty-eight of them."
"And the thirty-ninth skull?" I asked, finishing my cigarette.
The mayor had succeeded in filling his pipe, and now he began to put his tobacco pouch away.
"The thirty-ninth skull," he mumbled54, holding the pipe stem between his defective55 teeth—"the thirty-ninth skull is no business of mine. I have told the Bannalec men to cease digging."
The mayor was busy trying to strike a spark to his tinder. Presently he set it aglow57, applied58 it to his pipe, took the prescribed four puffs, knocked the ashes out of the bowl, and gravely replaced the pipe in his pocket.
"The missing skull?" he asked.
"Yes," said I, impatiently.
The mayor slowly unrolled the scroll and began to read, translating from the Breton into French. And this is what he read:
"On the Cliffs of St. Gildas,
April 13, 1760.
"On this day, by order of the Count of Soisic, general in chief of the Breton forces now lying in Kerselec Forest, the bodies of thirty-eight English soldiers of the 27th, 50th, and 72d regiments59 of Foot were buried in this spot, together with their arms and equipments."
The mayor paused and glanced at me reflectively.
"Go on, Le Bihan," I said.
"With them," continued the mayor, turning the scroll and reading on the other side, "was buried the body of that vile60 traitor61 who betrayed the fort to the English. The manner of his death was as follows: By order of the most noble Count of Soisic, the traitor was first branded upon the forehead with the brand of an arrowhead. The iron burned through the flesh and was pressed heavily so that the brand should even burn into the bone of the skull. The traitor was then led out and bidden to kneel. He admitted having guided the English from the island of Groix. Although a priest and a Frenchman, he had violated his priestly office to aid him in discovering the password to the fort. This password he extorted62 during confession63 from a young Breton girl who was in the habit of rowing across from the island of Groix to visit her husband in the fort. When the fort fell, this young girl, crazed by the death of her husband, sought the Count of Soisic and told how the priest had forced her to confess to him all she knew about the fort. The priest was arrested at St. Gildas as he was about to cross the river to Lorient. When arrested he cursed the girl, Marie Trevec——"
"What!" I exclaimed, "Marie Trevec!"
"Marie Trevec," repeated Le Bihan; "the priest cursed Marie Trevec, and all her family and descendants. He was shot as he knelt, having a mask of leather over his face, because the Bretons who composed the squad64 of execution refused to fire at a priest unless his face was concealed65. The priest was l'Abbé Sorgue, commonly known as the Black Priest on account of his dark face and swarthy eyebrows66. He was buried with a stake through his heart."
Le Bihan paused, hesitated, looked at me, and handed the manuscript back to Durand. The gendarme took it and slipped it into the brass cylinder.
"So," said I, "the thirty-ninth skull is the skull of the Black Priest."
"Yes," said Fortin. "I hope they won't find it."
"I have forbidden them to proceed," said the mayor querulously. "You heard me, Max Fortin."
I rose and picked up my gun. Môme came and pushed his head into my hand.
"That's a fine dog," observed Durand, also rising.
"Why don't you wish to find his skull?" I asked Le Bihan. "It would be curious to see whether the arrow brand really burned into the bone."
"There is something in that scroll that I didn't read to you," said the mayor grimly. "Do you wish to know what it is?"
"Of course," I replied in surprise.
"Give me the scroll again, Durand," he said; then he read from the bottom: "I, l'Abbé Sorgue, forced to write the above by my executioners, have written it in my own blood; and with it I leave my curse. My curse on St. Gildas, on Marie Trevec, and on her descendants. I will come back to St. Gildas when my remains67 are disturbed. Woe68 to that Englishman whom my branded skull shall touch!"
"What rot!" I said. "Do you believe it was really written in his own blood?"
"I am going to test it," said Fortin, "at the request of Monsieur le Maire. I am not anxious for the job, however."
"See," said Le Bihan, holding out the scroll to me, "it is signed, 'L'Abbé Sorgue.'"
I glanced curiously over the paper.
"It must be the Black Priest," I said. "He was the only man who wrote in the Breton language. This is a wonderfully interesting discovery, for now, at last, the mystery of the Black Priest's disappearance69 is cleared up. You will, of course, send this scroll to Paris, Le Bihan?"
"No," said the mayor obstinately, "it shall be buried in the pit below where the rest of the Black Priest lies."
I looked at him and recognized that argument would be useless. But still I said, "It will be a loss to history, Monsieur Le Bihan."
"All the worse for history, then," said the enlightened Mayor of St. Gildas.
We had sauntered back to the gravel pit while speaking. The men of Bannalec were carrying the bones of the English soldiers toward the St. Gildas cemetery70, on the cliffs to the east, where already a knot of white-coiffed women stood in attitudes of prayer; and I saw the somber71 robe of a priest among the crosses of the little graveyard72.
"They were thieves and assassins; they are dead now," muttered Max Fortin.
"Respect the dead," repeated the Mayor of St. Gildas, looking after the Bannalec men.
"It was written in that scroll that Marie Trevec, of Groix Island, was cursed by the priest—she and her descendants," I said, touching73 Le Bihan on the arm. "There was a Marie Trevec who married an Yves Trevec of St. Gildas——"
"Oh!" said I; "then they were ancestors of my wife."
"Do you fear the curse?" asked Le Bihan.
"What?" I laughed.
"There was the case of the Purple Emperor," said Max Fortin timidly.
Startled for a moment, I faced him, then shrugged75 my shoulders and kicked at a smooth bit of rock which lay near the edge of the pit, almost embedded76 in gravel.
"Do you suppose the Purple-Emperor drank himself crazy because he was descended77 from Marie Trevec?" I asked contemptuously.
"Of course not," said Max Fortin hastily.
"Of course not," piped the mayor. "I only—Hellow! what's that you're kicking?"
"What?" said I, glancing down, at the same time involuntarily giving another kick. The smooth bit of rock dislodged itself and rolled out of the loosened gravel at my feet.
"The thirty-ninth skull!" I exclaimed. "By jingo, it's the noddle of the Black Priest! See! there is the arrowhead branded on the front!"
The mayor stepped back. Max Fortin also retreated. There was a pause, during which I looked at them, and they looked anywhere but at me.
"I don't like it," said the mayor at last, in a husky, high voice. "I don't like it! The scroll says he will come back to St. Gildas when his remains are disturbed. I—I don't like it, Monsieur Darrel—"
"Bosh!" said I; "the poor wicked devil is where he can't get out. For Heaven's sake, Le Bihan, what is this stuff you are talking in the year of grace 1896?"
The mayor gave me a look.
"And he says 'Englishman.' You are an Englishman, Monsieur Darrel," he announced.
"You know better. You know I'm an American."
"It's all the same," said the Mayor of St. Gildas, obstinately.
"No, it isn't!" I answered, much exasperated78, and deliberately79 pushed the skull till it rolled into the bottom of the gravel pit below.
"Cover it up," said I; "bury the scroll with it too, if you insist, but I think you ought to send it to Paris. Don't look so gloomy, Fortin, unless you believe in werewolves and ghosts. Hey! what the—what the devil's the matter with you, anyway? What are you staring at, Le Bihan?"
"Come, come," muttered the mayor in a low, tremulous voice, "it's time we got out of this. Did you see? Did you see, Fortin?"
The two men were almost running across the sunny pasture now, and I hastened after them, demanding to know what was the matter.
"Matter!" chattered81 the mayor, gasping82 with exasperation83 and terror. "The skull is rolling up hill again," and he burst into a terrified gallop84, Max Fortin followed close behind.
I watched them stampeding across the pasture, then turned toward the gravel pit, mystified, incredulous. The skull was lying on the edge of the pit, exactly where it had been before I pushed it over the edge. For a second I stared at it; a singular chilly85 feeling crept up my spinal86 column, and I turned and walked away, sweat starting from the root of every hair on my head. Before I had gone twenty paces the absurdity87 of the whole thing struck me. I halted, hot with shame and annoyance88, and retraced89 my steps.
There lay the skull.
"I rolled a stone down instead of the skull," I muttered to myself. Then with the butt16 of my gun I pushed the skull over the edge of the pit and watched it roll to the bottom; and as it struck the bottom of the pit, Môme, my dog, suddenly whipped his tail between his legs, whimpered, and made off across the moor46.
"Môme!" I shouted, angry and astonished; but the dog only fled the faster, and I ceased calling from sheer surprise.
"What the mischief90 is the matter with that dog!" I thought. He had never before played me such a trick.
Mechanically I glanced into the pit, but I could not see the skull. I looked down. The skull lay at my feet again, touching them.
"Good heavens!" I stammered91, and struck at it blindly with my gunstock. The ghastly thing flew into the air, whirling over and over, and rolled again down the sides of the pit to the bottom. Breathlessly I stared at it, then, confused and scarcely comprehending, I stepped back from the pit, still facing it, one, ten, twenty paces, my eyes almost starting from my head, as though I expected to see the thing roll up from the bottom of the pit under my very gaze. At last I turned my back to the pit and strode out across the gorse-covered moorland toward my home. As I reached the road that winds from St. Gildas to St. Julien I gave one hasty glance at the pit over my shoulder. The sun shone hot on the sod about the excavation. There was something white and bare and round on the turf at the edge of the pit. It might have been a stone; there were plenty of them lying about.
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1
mound
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| n.土墩，堤，小山；v.筑堤，用土堆防卫 | |
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fowling
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| 捕鸟，打鸟 | |
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skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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skulls
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| 颅骨( skull的名词复数 )； 脑袋； 脑子； 脑瓜 | |
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gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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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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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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cylinder
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| n.圆筒，柱(面)，汽缸 | |
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10
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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trampling
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| 踩( trample的现在分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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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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14
salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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butt
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| n.笑柄；烟蒂；枪托；臀部；v.用头撞或顶 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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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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silhouetted
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| 显出轮廓的，显示影像的 | |
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cormorant
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| n.鸬鹚，贪婪的人 | |
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gendarme
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| n.宪兵 | |
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rummaged
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| 翻找，搜寻( rummage的过去式和过去分词 )； 已经海关检查 | |
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despatch
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| n./v.(dispatch)派遣；发送；n.急件；新闻报道 | |
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spat
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| n.口角，掌击；v.发出呼噜呼噜声 | |
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pouch
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| n.小袋，小包，囊状袋；vt.装...入袋中，用袋运输；vi.用袋送信件 | |
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scroll
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| n.卷轴，纸卷；(石刻上的)漩涡 | |
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shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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shrilly
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| 尖声的； 光亮的，耀眼的 | |
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saluted
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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shovels
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| n.铲子( shovel的名词复数 )；锹；推土机、挖土机等的)铲；铲形部份v.铲子( shovel的第三人称单数 )；锹；推土机、挖土机等的)铲；铲形部份 | |
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rusted
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| v.（使）生锈( rust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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scythe
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| n. 长柄的大镰刀，战车镰； v. 以大镰刀割 | |
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tarnished
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| （通常指金属）（使）失去光泽，（使）变灰暗( tarnish的过去式和过去分词 )； 玷污，败坏 | |
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buckle
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| n.扣子，带扣；v.把...扣住，由于压力而弯曲 | |
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regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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excavation
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| n.挖掘，发掘；被挖掘之地 | |
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relic
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| n.神圣的遗物，遗迹，纪念物 | |
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relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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40
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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desecrator
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| 亵渎，玷污； 把（神物）供俗用 | |
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jersey
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| n.运动衫 | |
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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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fumbling
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| n. 摸索,漏接 v. 摸索,摸弄,笨拙的处理 | |
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moors
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| v.停泊，系泊（船只）( moor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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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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rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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winked
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| v.使眼色( wink的过去式和过去分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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magistrate
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| n.地方行政官，地方法官，治安官 | |
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crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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microscopical
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| adj.显微镜的，精微的 | |
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puffs
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| n.吸( puff的名词复数 )；（烟斗或香烟的）一吸；一缕（烟、蒸汽等）；（呼吸或风的）呼v.使喷出( puff的第三人称单数 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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dismantled
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| 拆开( dismantle的过去式和过去分词 )； 拆卸； 废除； 取消 | |
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mumbled
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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defective
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| adj.有毛病的，有问题的，有瑕疵的 | |
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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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aglow
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| adj.发亮的；发红的；adv.发亮地 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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regiments
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| （军队的）团( regiment的名词复数 )； 大量的人或物 | |
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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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traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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extorted
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| v.敲诈( extort的过去式和过去分词 )；曲解 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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squad
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| n.班，小队，小团体；vt.把…编成班或小组 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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somber
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| adj.昏暗的，阴天的，阴森的，忧郁的 | |
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graveyard
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| n.坟场 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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obliquely
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| adv.斜； 倾斜； 间接； 不光明正大 | |
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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embedded
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| a.扎牢的 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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chattered
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| （人）喋喋不休( chatter的过去式 )； 唠叨； （牙齿）打战； （机器）震颤 | |
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gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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exasperation
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| n.愤慨 | |
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gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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spinal
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| adj.针的，尖刺的，尖刺状突起的；adj.脊骨的，脊髓的 | |
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absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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89
retraced
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| v.折回( retrace的过去式和过去分词 )；回忆；回顾；追溯 | |
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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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