He had changed little, save for a streak2 or two of grey in his hair, for his face had always been old, and his step slow, and, as it were, decrepit3.
If he looked old, it was not because of anything physical or mental. It was because he still wore, with a quaint4 conservatism, the frock-coat and high hat of the days before the great war. “I have survived the Deluge,” he said. “I am a pyramid, and must behave as such.”
As he passed up the street the Kensingtonians, in their picturesque5 blue smocks, saluted6 him as a King, and then looked after him as a curiosity. It seemed odd to them that men had once worn so elvish an attire7.
The King, cultivating the walk attributed to the oldest inhabitant (“Gaffer Auberon” his friends were now confidentially8 desired to call him), went toddling9 northward10. He paused, with reminiscence in his eye, at the Southern Gate of Notting Hill, one of those nine great gates of bronze and steel, wrought11 with reliefs of the old battles, by the hand of Chiffy himself.
“Ah!” he said, shaking his head and assuming an unnecessary air of age, and a provincialism of accent —“Ah! I mind when there warn’t none of this here.”
He passed through the Ossington Gate, surmounted12 by a great lion, wrought in red copper13 on yellow brass14, with the motto, “Nothing Ill.” The guard in red and gold saluted him with his halberd.
It was about sunset, and the lamps were being lit. Auberon paused to look at them, for they were Chiffy’s finest work, and his artistic15 eye never failed to feast on them. In memory of the Great Battle of the Lamps, each great iron lamp was surmounted by a veiled figure, sword in hand, holding over the flame an iron hood16 or extinguisher, as if ready to let it fall if the armies of the South and West should again show their flags in the city. Thus no child in Notting Hill could play about the streets without the very lamp-posts reminding him of the salvation17 of his country in the dreadful year.
“Old Wayne was right in a way,” commented the King. “The sword does make things beautiful. It has made the whole world romantic by now. And to think people once thought me a buffoon18 for suggesting a romantic Notting Hill. Deary me, deary me! (I think that is the expression)— it seems like a previous existence.”
Turning a corner, he found himself in Pump Street, opposite the four shops which Adam Wayne had studied twenty years before. He entered idly the shop of Mr. Mead19, the grocer. Mr. Mead was somewhat older, like the rest of the world, and his red beard, which he now wore with a moustache, and long and full, was partly blanched20 and discoloured. He was dressed in a long and richly embroidered21 robe of blue, brown, and crimson22, interwoven with an Eastern complexity23 of pattern, and covered with obscure symbols and pictures, representing his wares24 passing from hand to hand and from nation to nation. Round his neck was the chain with the Blue Argosy cut in turquoise25, which he wore as Grand Master of the Grocers. The whole shop had the sombre and sumptuous26 look of its owner. The wares were displayed as prominently as in the old days, but they were now blended and arranged with a sense of tint27 and grouping, too often neglected by the dim grocers of those forgotten days. The wares were shown plainly, but shown not so much as an old grocer would have shown his stock, but rather as an educated virtuoso28 would have shown his treasures. The tea was stored in great blue and green vases, inscribed29 with the nine indispensable sayings of the wise men of China. Other vases of a confused orange and purple, less rigid30 and dominant31, more humble32 and dreamy, stored symbolically33 the tea of India. A row of caskets of a simple silvery metal contained tinned meats. Each was wrought with some rude but rhythmic34 form, as a shell, a horn, a fish, or an apple, to indicate what material had been canned in it.
“Your Majesty35,” said Mr. Mead, sweeping36 an Oriental reverence37. “This is an honour to me, but yet more an honour to the city.”
Auberon took off his hat.
“Mr. Mead,” he said, “Notting Hill, whether in giving or taking, can deal in nothing but honour. Do you happen to sell liquorice?”
“Liquorice, sire,” said Mr. Mead, “is not the least important of our benefits out of the dark heart of Arabia.”
And going reverently38 towards a green and silver canister, made in the form of an Arabian mosque39, he proceeded to serve his customer.
“I was just thinking, Mr. Mead,” said the King, reflectively, “I don’t know why I should think about it just now, but I was just thinking of twenty years ago. Do you remember the times before the war?”
The grocer, having wrapped up the liquorice sticks in a piece of paper (inscribed with some appropriate sentiment), lifted his large grey eyes dreamily, and looked at the darkening sky outside.
“Oh yes, your Majesty,” he said. “I remember these streets before the Lord Provost began to rule us. I can’t remember how we felt very well. All the great songs and the fighting change one so; and I don’t think we can really estimate all we owe to the Provost; but I can remember his coming into this very shop twenty-two years ago, and I remember the things he said. The singular thing is that, as far as I remember, I thought the things he said odd at that time. Now it’s the things that I said, as far as I can recall them, that seem to me odd — as odd as a madman’s antics.”
“Ah!” said the King; and looked at him with an unfathomable quietness.
“I thought nothing of being a grocer then,” he said. “Isn’t that odd enough for anybody? I thought nothing of all the wonderful places that my goods come from, and wonderful ways that they are made. I did not know that I was for all practical purposes a king with slaves spearing fishes near the secret pool, and gathering40 fruits in the islands under the world. My mind was a blank on the thing. I was as mad as a hatter.”
The King turned also, and stared out into the dark, where the great lamps that commemorated41 the battle were already flaming.
“And is this the end of poor old Wayne?” he said, half to himself. “To inflame42 every one so much that he is lost himself in the blaze. Is this his victory that he, my incomparable Wayne, is now only one in a world of Waynes? Has he conquered and become by conquest commonplace? Must Mr. Mead, the grocer, talk as high as he? Lord! what a strange world in which a man cannot remain unique even by taking the trouble to go mad!”
And he went dreamily out of the shop.
He paused outside the next one almost precisely43 as the Provost had done two decades before.
A FINE EVENING, SIR, SAID THE CHEMIST.
"A fine evening, sir," said the chemist.
“How uncommonly44 creepy this shop looks!” he said. “But yet somehow encouragingly creepy, invitingly45 creepy. It looks like something in a jolly old nursery story in which you are frightened out of your skin, and yet know that things always end well. The way those low sharp gables are carved like great black bat’s wings folded down, and the way those queer-coloured bowls underneath46 are made to shine like giants eye-balls. It looks like a benevolent47 warlock’s hut. It is apparently48 a chemist’s .”
Almost as he spoke49, Mr. Bowles, the chemist, came to his shop door in a long black velvet50 gown and hood, monastic as it were, but yet with a touch of the diabolic. His hair was still quite black, and his face even paler than of old. The only spot of colour he carried was a red star cut in some precious stone of strong tint, hung on his breast. He belonged to the Society of the Red Star of Charity, founded on the lamps displayed by doctors and chemists.
“A fine evening, sir,” said the chemist. “Why, I can scarcely be mistaken in supposing it to be your Majesty. Pray step inside and share a bottle of sal-volatile, or anything that may take your fancy. As it happens, there is an old acquaintance of your Majesty’s in my shop carousing51 (if I may be permitted the term) upon that beverage52 at this moment.”
The King entered the shop, which was an Aladdin’s garden of shades and hues53, for as the chemist’s scheme of colour was more brilliant than the grocer’s scheme, so it was arranged with even more delicacy54 and fancy. Never, if the phrase may be employed, had such a nosegay of medicines been presented to the artistic eye.
But even the solemn rainbow of that evening interior was rivalled or even eclipsed by the figure standing55 in the centre of the shop. His form, which was a large and stately one, was clad in a brilliant blue velvet, cut in the richest Renaissance56 fashion, and slashed57 so as to show gleams and gaps of a wonderful lemon or pale yellow. He had several chains round his neck, and his plumes58, which were of several tints59 of bronze and gold, hung down to the great gold hilt of his long sword. He was drinking a dose of sal-volatile, and admiring its opal tint. The King advanced with a slight mystification towards the tall figure, whose face was in shadow; then he said —
“By the Great Lord of Luck, Barker!”
The figure removed his plumed60 cap, showing the same dark head and long, almost equine face which the King had so often seen rising out of the high collar of Bond Street. Except for a grey patch on each temple, it was totally unchanged.
“Your Majesty,” said Barker, “this is a meeting nobly retrospective, a meeting that has about it a certain October gold. I drink to old days;” and he finished his sal-volatile with simple feeling.
“I am delighted to see you again, Barker,” said the King. “It is indeed long since we met. What with my travels in Asia Minor61, and my book having to be written (you have read my ‘Life of Prince Albert for Children,’ of course?), we have scarcely met twice since the Great War. That is twenty years ago.”
“I wonder,” said Barker, thoughtfully, “if I might speak freely to your Majesty?”
“Well,” said Auberon, “it’s rather late in the day to start speaking respectfully. Flap away, my bird of freedom.”
“Well, your Majesty,” replied Barker, lowering his voice, “I don’t think it will be so long to the next war.”
“What do you mean?” asked Auberon.
“We will stand this insolence62 no longer,” burst out Barker, fiercely. “We are not slaves because Adam Wayne twenty years ago cheated us with a water-pipe. Notting Hill is Notting Hill; it is not the world. We in South Kensington, we also have memories — ay, and hopes. If they fought for these trumpery63 shops and a few lamp-posts, shall we not fight for the great High Street and the sacred Natural History Museum?”
“Great Heavens!” said the astounded64 Auberon. “Will wonders never cease? Have the two greatest marvels65 been achieved? Have you turned altruistic66, and has Wayne turned selfish? Are you the patriot67, and he the tyrant68?”
“It is not from Wayne himself altogether that the evil comes,” answered Barker. “He, indeed, is now mostly wrapped in dreams, and sits with his old sword beside the fire. But Notting Hill is the tyrant, your Majesty. Its Council and its crowds have been so intoxicated69 by the spreading over the whole city of Wayne’s old ways and visions, that they try to meddle70 with every one, and rule every one, and civilise every one, and tell every one what is good for him. I do not deny the great impulse which his old war, wild as it seemed, gave to the civic71 life of our time. It came when I was still a young man, and I admit it enlarged my career. But we are not going to see our own cities flouted72 and thwarted73 from day to day because of something Wayne did for us all nearly a quarter of a century ago. I am just waiting here for news upon this very matter. It is rumoured74 that Notting Hill has vetoed the statue of General Wilson they are putting up opposite Chepstow Place. If that is so, it is a black and white shameless breach75 of the terms on which we surrendered to Turnbull after the battle of the Tower. We were to keep our own customs and self-government. If that is so —”
“It is so,” said a deep voice; and both men turned round.
A burly figure in purple robes, with a silver eagle hung round his neck and moustaches almost as florid as his plumes, stood in the doorway76.
“Yes,” he said, acknowledging the King’s start, “I am Provost Buck77, and the news is true. These men of the Hill have forgotten that we fought round the Tower as well as they, and that it is sometimes foolish, as well as base, to despise the conquered.”
“Let us step outside,” said Barker, with a grim composure.
Buck did so, and stood rolling his eyes up and down the lamp-lit street.
“I would like to have a go at smashing all this,” he muttered, “though I am over sixty. I would like —”
His voice ended in a cry, and he reeled back a step, with his hands to his eyes, as he had done in those streets twenty years before.
“Darkness!” he cried —“darkness again! What does it mean?”
For in truth every lamp in the street had gone out, so that they could not see even each other’s outline, except faintly. The voice of the chemist came with startling cheerfulness out of the density78.
“Oh, don’t you know?” he said. “Did they never tell you this is the Feast of the Lamps, the anniversary of the great battle that almost lost and just saved Notting Hill? Don’t you know, your Majesty, that on this night twenty-one years ago we saw Wilson’s green uniforms charging down this street, and driving Wayne and Turnbull back upon the gas-works, fighting with their handful like fiends from hell? And that then, in that great hour, Wayne sprang through a window of the gas-works, with one blow of his hand brought darkness on the whole city, and then with a cry like a lion’s, that was heard through four streets, flew at Wilson’s men, sword in hand, and swept them, bewildered as they were, and ignorant of the map, clear out of the sacred street again? And don’t you know that upon that night every year all lights are turned out for half an hour while we sing the Notting Hill anthem79 in the darkness? Hark! there it begins.”
Through the night came a crash of drums, and then a strong swell80 of human voices —
“When the world was in the balance, there was night on Notting Hill,
(There was night on Notting Hill): it was nobler than the day;
On the cities where the lights are and the firesides glow,
From the seas and from the deserts came the thing we did not know,
Came the darkness, came the darkness, came the darkness on the foe81,
And the old guard of God turned to bay.
For the old guard of God turns to bay, turns to bay,
And the stars fall down before it ere its banners fall to-day:
For when armies were around us as a howling and a horde82,
When falling was the citadel83 and broken was the sword,
The darkness came upon them like the Dragon of the Lord,
When the old guard of God turned to bay.”
The voices were just uplifting themselves in a second verse when they were stopped by a scurry84 and a yell. Barker had bounded into the street with a cry of “South Kensington!” and a drawn85 dagger86. In less time than a man could blink, the whole packed street was full of curses and struggling. Barker was flung back against the shop-front, but used the second only to draw his sword as well as his dagger, and calling out, “This is not the first time I’ve come through the thick of you,” flung himself again into the press. It was evident that he had drawn blood at last, for a more violent outcry arose, and many other knives and swords were discernible in the faint light. Barker, after having wounded more than one man, seemed on the point of being flung back again, when Buck suddenly stepped out into the street. He had no weapon, for he affected87 rather the peaceful magnificence of the great burgher, than the pugnacious88 dandyism which had replaced the old sombre dandyism in Barker. But with a blow of his clenched89 fist he broke the pane90 of the next shop, which was the old curiosity shop, and, plunging91 in his hand, snatched a kind of Japanese scimitar, and calling out, “Kensington! Kensington!” rushed to Barker’s assistance.
Barker’s sword was broken, but he was laying about him with his dagger. Just as Buck ran up, a man of Notting Hill struck Barker down, but Buck struck the man down on top of him, and Barker sprang up again, the blood running down his face.
Suddenly all these cries were cloven by a great voice, that seemed to fall out of heaven. It was terrible to Buck and Barker and the King, from its seeming to come out the empty skies; but it was more terrible because it was a familiar voice, and one which at the same time they had not heard for so long.
“Turn up the lights,” said the voice from above them, and for a moment there was no reply, but only a tumult92.
“In the name of Notting Hill and of the great Council of the City, turn up the lights.”
There was again a tumult and a vagueness for a moment, then the whole street and every object in it sprang suddenly out of the darkness, as every lamp sprang into life. And looking up they saw, standing upon a balcony near the roof of one of the highest houses, the figure and the face of Adam Wayne, his red hair blowing behind him, a little streaked93 with grey.
“What is this, my people?” he said. “Is it altogether impossible to make a thing good without it immediately insisting on being wicked? The glory of Notting Hill in having achieved its independence, has been enough for me to dream of for many years, as I sat beside the fire. Is it really not enough for you, who have had so many other affairs to excite and distract you? Notting Hill is a nation. Why should it condescend94 to be a mere95 Empire? You wish to pull down the statue of General Wilson, which the men of Bayswater have so rightly erected97 in Westbourne Grove98. Fools! Who erected that statue? Did Bayswater erect96 it? No. Notting Hill erected it. Do you not see that it is the glory of our achievement that we have infected the other cities with the idealism of Notting Hill? It is we who have created not only our own side, but both sides of this controversy99. O too humble fools, why should you wish to destroy your enemies? You have done something more to them. You have created your enemies. You wish to pull down that gigantic silver hammer, which stands, like an obelisk100, in the centre of the Broadway of Hammersmith. Fools! Before Notting Hill arose, did any person passing through Hammersmith Broadway expect to see there a gigantic silver hammer? You wish to abolish the great bronze figure of a knight101 standing upon the artificial bridge at Knightsbridge. Fools! Who would have thought of it before Notting Hill arose? I have even heard, and with deep pain I have heard it, that the evil eye of our imperial envy has been cast towards the remote horizon of the west, and that we have objected to the great black monument of a crowned raven102, which commemorates103 the skirmish of Ravenscourt Park. Who created all these things? Were they there before we came? Cannot you be content with that destiny which was enough for Athens, which was enough for Nazareth? the destiny, the humble purpose, of creating a new world. Is Athens angry because Romans and Florentines have adopted her phraseology for expressing their own patriotism104? Is Nazareth angry because as a little village it has become the type of all little villages out of which, as the Snobs105 say, no good can come? Has Athens asked every one to wear the chlamys? Are all followers106 of the Nazarene compelled to wear turbans. No! but the soul of Athens went forth107 and made men drink hemlock108, and the soul of Nazareth went forth and made men consent to be crucified. So has the soul of Notting Hill gone forth and made men realise what it is to live in a city. Just as we inaugurated our symbols and ceremonies, so they have inaugurated theirs; and are you so mad as to contend against them? Notting Hill is right; it has always been right. It has moulded itself on its own necessities, its own sine qua non; it has accepted its own ultimatum109. Because it is a nation it has created itself; and because it is a nation it can destroy itself. Notting Hill shall always be the judge. If it is your will because of this matter of General Wilson’s statue to make war upon Bayswater —”
A roar of cheers broke in upon his words, and further speech was impossible. Pale to the lips, the great patriot tried again and again to speak; but even his authority could not keep down the dark and roaring masses in the street below him. He said something further, but it was not audible. He descended110 at last sadly from the garret in which he lived, and mingled111 with the crowd at the foot of the houses. Finding General Turnbull, he put his hand on his shoulder with a queer affection and gravity, and said —
“To-morrow, old man, we shall have a new experience, as fresh as the flowers of spring. We shall be defeated. You and I have been through three battles together, and have somehow or other missed this peculiar112 delight. It is unfortunate that we shall not probably be able to exchange our experiences, because, as it most annoyingly happens, we shall probably both be dead.”
Turnbull looked dimly surprised.
“I don’t mind so much about being dead,” he said, “but why should you say that we shall be defeated?”
“The answer is very simple,” replied Wayne, calmly. “It is because we ought to be defeated. We have been in the most horrible holes before now; but in all those I was perfectly113 certain that the stars were on our side, and that we ought to get out. Now I know that we ought not to get out; and that takes away from me everything with which I won.”
As Wayne spoke he started a little, for both men became aware that a third figure was listening to them — a small figure with wondering eyes.
“Is it really true, my dear Wayne,” said the King, interrupting, “that you think you will be beaten to-morrow?”
“There can be no doubt about it whatever,” replied Adam Wayne; “the real reason is the one of which I have just spoken. But as a concession114 to your materialism115, I will add that they have an organised army of a hundred allied116 cities against our one. That in itself, however, would be unimportant.”
Quin, with his round eyes, seemed strangely insistent117.
“You are quite sure,” he said, “that you must be beaten?”
“I am afraid,” said Turnbull, gloomily, “that there can be no doubt about it.”
“Then,” cried the King, flinging out his arms, “give me a halberd! Give me a halberd, somebody! I desire all men to witness that I, Auberon, King of England, do here and now abdicate118, and implore119 the Provost of Notting Hill to permit me to enlist120 in his army. Give me a halberd!”
He seized one from some passing guard, and, shouldering it, stamped solemnly after the shouting columns of halberdiers which were, by this time, parading the streets. He had, however, nothing to do with the wrecking121 of the statue of General Wilson, which took place before morning.
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1
dominion
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| n.统治，管辖，支配权；领土，版图 | |
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streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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decrepit
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| adj.衰老的，破旧的 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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6
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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7
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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8
confidentially
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| ad.秘密地，悄悄地 | |
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9
toddling
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| v.（幼儿等）东倒西歪地走( toddle的现在分词 )；蹒跚行走；溜达；散步 | |
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northward
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| adv.向北；n.北方的地区 | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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12
surmounted
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| 战胜( surmount的过去式和过去分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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13
copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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15
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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16
hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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buffoon
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| n.演出时的丑角 | |
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mead
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| n.蜂蜜酒 | |
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blanched
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| v.使变白( blanch的过去式 )；使（植物）不见阳光而变白；酸洗（金属）使有光泽；用沸水烫（杏仁等）以便去皮 | |
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embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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complexity
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| n.复杂(性)，复杂的事物 | |
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wares
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| n. 货物, 商品 | |
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turquoise
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| n.绿宝石；adj.蓝绿色的 | |
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sumptuous
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| adj.豪华的，奢侈的，华丽的 | |
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tint
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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virtuoso
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| n.精于某种艺术或乐器的专家，行家里手 | |
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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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rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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dominant
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| adj.支配的，统治的；占优势的；显性的；n.主因，要素，主要的人(或物)；显性基因 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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symbolically
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| ad.象征地，象征性地 | |
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rhythmic
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| adj.有节奏的，有韵律的 | |
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majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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reverently
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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39
mosque
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| n.清真寺 | |
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40
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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41
commemorated
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| v.纪念，庆祝( commemorate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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42
inflame
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| v.使燃烧；使极度激动；使发炎 | |
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43
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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44
uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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45
invitingly
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| adv. 动人地 | |
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46
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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47
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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48
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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49
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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50
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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51
carousing
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| v.痛饮，闹饮欢宴( carouse的现在分词 ) | |
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52
beverage
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| n.(水，酒等之外的)饮料 | |
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53
hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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54
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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55
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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56
renaissance
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| n.复活，复兴，文艺复兴 | |
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57
slashed
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| v.挥砍( slash的过去式和过去分词 )；鞭打；割破；削减 | |
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58
plumes
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| 羽毛( plume的名词复数 )； 羽毛饰； 羽毛状物； 升上空中的羽状物 | |
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59
tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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60
plumed
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| 饰有羽毛的 | |
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61
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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62
insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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63
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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64
astounded
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| v.使震惊(astound的过去式和过去分词)；愕然；愕；惊讶 | |
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65
marvels
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| n.奇迹( marvel的名词复数 )；令人惊奇的事物（或事例）；不平凡的成果；成就v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的第三人称单数 ) | |
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66
altruistic
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| adj.无私的，为他人着想的 | |
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67
patriot
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| n.爱国者，爱国主义者 | |
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68
tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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69
intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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70
meddle
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| v.干预，干涉，插手 | |
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71
civic
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| adj.城市的，都市的，市民的，公民的 | |
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72
flouted
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| v.藐视，轻视( flout的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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thwarted
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| 阻挠( thwart的过去式和过去分词 )； 使受挫折； 挫败； 横过 | |
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74
rumoured
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| adj.谣传的；传说的；风 | |
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75
breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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76
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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77
buck
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| n.雄鹿，雄兔；v.马离地跳跃 | |
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78
density
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| n.密集，密度，浓度 | |
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79
anthem
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| n.圣歌，赞美诗，颂歌 | |
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80
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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81
foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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82
horde
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| n.群众，一大群 | |
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83
citadel
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| n.城堡；堡垒；避难所 | |
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84
scurry
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| vi.急匆匆地走；使急赶；催促；n.快步急跑，疾走；仓皇奔跑声；骤雨，骤雪；短距离赛马 | |
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85
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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86
dagger
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| n.匕首，短剑，剑号 | |
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87
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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88
pugnacious
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| adj.好斗的 | |
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89
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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90
pane
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| n.窗格玻璃，长方块 | |
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91
plunging
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| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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92
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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93
streaked
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| adj.有条斑纹的，不安的v.快速移动( streak的过去式和过去分词 )；使布满条纹 | |
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94
condescend
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| v.俯就，屈尊；堕落，丢丑 | |
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95
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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96
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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97
ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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98
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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99
controversy
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| n.争论，辩论，争吵 | |
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100
obelisk
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| n.方尖塔 | |
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101
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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102
raven
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| n.渡鸟，乌鸦；adj.乌亮的 | |
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103
commemorates
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| n.纪念，庆祝( commemorate的名词复数 )v.纪念，庆祝( commemorate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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104
patriotism
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| n.爱国精神，爱国心，爱国主义 | |
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105
snobs
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| （谄上傲下的）势利小人( snob的名词复数 )； 自高自大者，自命不凡者 | |
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106
followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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107
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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108
hemlock
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| n.毒胡萝卜，铁杉 | |
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109
ultimatum
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| n.最后通牒 | |
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110
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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111
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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112
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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113
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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114
concession
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| n.让步，妥协；特许(权) | |
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115
materialism
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| n.［哲］唯物主义，唯物论；物质至上 | |
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116
allied
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| adj.协约国的；同盟国的 | |
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117
insistent
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| adj.迫切的，坚持的 | |
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118
abdicate
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| v.让位，辞职，放弃 | |
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119
implore
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| vt.乞求，恳求，哀求 | |
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120
enlist
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| vt.谋取(支持等)，赢得；征募；vi.入伍 | |
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121
wrecking
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| 破坏 | |
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