Those may imagine, who have seen death untimely strike down persons revered1 and beloved, and know how unavailing consolation2 is, what was Harry3 Esmond’s anguish4 after being an actor in that ghastly midnight scene of blood and homicide. He could not, he felt, have faced his dear mistress, and told her that story. He was thankful that kind Atterbury consented to break the sad news to her; but, besides his grief, which he took into prison with him, he had that in his heart which secretly cheered and consoled him.
A great secret had been told to Esmond by his unhappy stricken kinsman6, lying on his death-bed. Were he to disclose it, as in equity7 and honor he might do, the discovery would but bring greater grief upon those whom he loved best in the world, and who were sad enough already. Should he bring down shame and perplexity upon all those beings to whom he was attached by so many tender ties of affection and gratitude8? degrade his father’s widow? impeach9 and sully his father’s and kinsman’s honor? and for what? for a barren title, to be worn at the expense of an innocent boy, the son of his dearest benefactress. He had debated this matter in his conscience, whilst his poor lord was making his dying confession10. On one side were ambition, temptation, justice even; but love, gratitude, and fidelity12, pleaded on the other. And when the struggle was over in Harry’s mind, a glow of righteous happiness filled it; and it was with grateful tears in his eyes that he returned thanks to God for that decision which he had been enabled to make.
“When I was denied by my own blood,” thought he, “these dearest friends received and cherished me. When I was a nameless orphan13 myself, and needed a protector, I found one in yonder kind soul, who has gone to his account repenting14 of the innocent wrong he has done.”
And with this consoling thought he went away to give himself up at the prison, after kissing the cold lips of his benefactor15.
It was on the third day after he had come to the Gatehouse prison, (where he lay in no small pain from his wound, which inflamed16 and ached severely,) and with those thoughts and resolutions that have been just spoke17 of, to depress, and yet to console him, that H. Esmond’s keeper came and told him that a visitor was asking for him, and though he could not see her face, which was enveloped18 in a black hood19, her whole figure, too, being veiled and covered with the deepest mourning, Esmond knew at once that his visitor was his dear mistress.
He got up from his bed, where he was lying, being very weak; and advancing towards her as the retiring keeper shut the door upon him and his guest in that sad place, he put forward his left hand (for the right was wounded and bandaged), and he would have taken that kind one of his mistress, which had done so many offices of friendship for him for so many years.
But the Lady Castlewood went back from him, putting back her hood, and leaning against the great stanchioned door which the gaoler had just closed upon them. Her face was ghastly white, as Esmond saw it, looking from the hood; and her eyes, ordinarily so sweet and tender, were fixed21 on him with such a tragic22 glance of woe23 and anger, as caused the young man, unaccustomed to unkindness from that person, to avert24 his own glances from her face.
“And this, Mr. Esmond,” she said, “is where I see you; and ’tis to this you have brought me!”
“You have come to console me in my calamity25, madam,” said he (though, in truth, he scarce knew how to address her, his emotions at beholding26 her so overpowered him).
She advanced a little, but stood silent and trembling, looking out at him from her black draperies, with her small white hands clasped together, and quivering lips and hollow eyes.
“Not to reproach me,” he continued after a pause. “My grief is sufficient as it is.”
“Take back your hand — do not touch me with it!” she cried. “Look! there’s blood on it!”
“I wish they had taken it all,” said Esmond; “if you are unkind to me.”
“Where is my husband?” she broke out. “Give me back my husband, Henry. Why did you stand by at midnight and see him murdered? Why did the traitor27 escape who did it? You, the champion of your house, who offered to die for us! You that he loved and trusted, and to whom I confided28 him — you that vowed29 devotion and gratitude, and I believed you — yes, I believed you — why are you here, and my noble Francis gone? Why did you come among us? You have only brought us grief and sorrow; and repentance30, bitter, bitter repentance, as a return for our love and kindness. Did I ever do you a wrong, Henry? You were but an orphan child when I first saw you — when HE first saw you, who was so good, and noble, and trusting. He would have had you sent away, but, like a foolish woman, I besought31 him to let you stay. And you pretended to love us, and we believed you — and you made our house wretched, and my husband’s heart went from me: and I lost him through you — I lost him — the husband of my youth, I say. I worshipped him: you know I worshipped him — and he was changed to me. He was no more my Francis of old — my dear, dear soldier. He loved me before he saw you; and I loved him. Oh, God is my witness how I loved him! Why did he not send you from among us? ’Twas only his kindness, that could refuse me nothing then. And, young as you were — yes, and weak and alone — there was evil, I knew there was evil in keeping you. I read it in your face and eyes. I saw that they boded32 harm to us — and it came, I knew it would. Why did you not die when you had the small-pox — and I came myself and watched you, and you didn’t know me in your delirium33 — and you called out for me, though I was there at your side? All that has happened since, was a just judgment34 on my wicked heart — my wicked jealous heart. Oh, I am punished — awfully35 punished! My husband lies in his blood — murdered for defending me, my kind, kind, generous lord — and you were by, and you let him die, Henry!”
These words, uttered in the wildness of her grief, by one who was ordinarily quiet, and spoke seldom except with a gentle smile and a soothing36 tone, rung in Esmond’s ear; and ’tis said that he repeated many of them in the fever into which he now fell from his wound, and perhaps from the emotion which such passionate37, undeserved upbraidings caused him. It seemed as if his very sacrifices and love for this lady and her family were to turn to evil and reproach: as if his presence amongst them was indeed a cause of grief, and the continuance of his life but woe and bitterness to theirs. As the Lady Castlewood spoke bitterly, rapidly, without a tear, he never offered a word of appeal or remonstrance38: but sat at the foot of his prison-bed, stricken only with the more pain at thinking it was that soft and beloved hand which should stab him so cruelly, and powerless against her fatal sorrow. Her words as she spoke struck the chords of all his memory, and the whole of his boyhood and youth passed within him; whilst this lady, so fond and gentle but yesterday — this good angel whom he had loved and worshipped — stood before him, pursuing him with keen words and aspect malign39.
“I wish I were in my lord’s place,” he groaned40 out. “It was not my fault that I was not there, madam. But Fate is stronger than all of us, and willed what has come to pass. It had been better for me to have died when I had the illness.”
“Yes, Henry,” said she — and as she spoke she looked at him with a glance that was at once so fond and so sad, that the young man, tossing up his arms, wildly fell back, hiding his head in the coverlet of the bed. As he turned he struck against the wall with his wounded hand, displacing the ligature; and he felt the blood rushing again from the wound. He remembered feeling a secret pleasure at the accident — and thinking, “Suppose I were to end now, who would grieve for me?”
This hemorrhage, or the grief and despair in which the luckless young man was at the time of the accident, must have brought on a deliquium presently; for he had scarce any recollection afterwards, save of some one, his mistress probably, seizing his hand — and then of the buzzing noise in his ears as he awoke, with two or three persons of the prison around his bed, whereon he lay in a pool of blood from his arm.
It was now bandaged up again by the prison surgeon, who happened to be in the place; and the governor’s wife and servant, kind people both, were with the patient. Esmond saw his mistress still in the room when he awoke from his trance; but she went away without a word; though the governor’s wife told him that she sat in her room for some time afterward41, and did not leave the prison until she heard that Esmond was likely to do well.
Days afterwards, when Esmond was brought out of a fever which he had, and which attacked him that night pretty sharply, the honest keeper’s wife brought her patient a handkerchief fresh washed and ironed, and at the corner of which he recognized his mistress’s well-known cipher42 and viscountess’s crown. “The lady had bound it round his arm when he fainted, and before she called for help,” the keeper’s wife said. “Poor lady! she took on sadly about her husband. He has been buried today, and a many of the coaches of the nobility went with him — my Lord Marlborough’s and my Lord Sunderland’s, and many of the officers of the Guards, in which he served in the old King’s time; and my lady has been with her two children to the King at Kensington, and asked for justice against my Lord Mohun, who is in hiding, and my Lord the Earl of Warwick and Holland, who is ready to give himself up and take his trial.”
Such were the news, coupled with assertions about her own honesty and that of Molly her maid, who would never have stolen a certain trumpery43 gold sleeve-button of Mr. Esmond’s that was missing after his fainting fit, that the keeper’s wife brought to her lodger44. His thoughts followed to that untimely grave, the brave heart, the kind friend, the gallant45 gentleman, honest of word and generous of thought, (if feeble of purpose, but are his betters much stronger than he?) who had given him bread and shelter when he had none; home and love when he needed them; and who, if he had kept one vital secret from him, had done that of which he repented46 ere dying — a wrong indeed, but one followed by remorse47, and occasioned by almost irresistible48 temptation.
Esmond took his handkerchief when his nurse left him, and very likely kissed it, and looked at the bauble49 embroidered50 in the corner. “It has cost thee grief enough,” he thought, “dear lady, so loving and so tender. Shall I take it from thee and thy children? No, never! Keep it, and wear it, my little Frank, my pretty boy. If I cannot make a name for myself, I can die without one. Some day, when my dear mistress sees my heart, I shall be righted; or if not here or now, why, elsewhere; where Honor doth not follow us, but where Love reigns51 perpetual.”
’Tis needless to relate here, as the reports of the lawyers already have chronicled them, the particulars or issue of that trial which ensued upon my Lord Castlewood’s melancholy52 homicide. Of the two lords engaged in that sad matter, the second, my Lord the Earl of Warwick and Holland, who had been engaged with Colonel Westbury, and wounded by him, was found not guilty by his peers, before whom he was tried (under the presidence of the Lord Steward53, Lord Somers); and the principal, the Lord Mohun, being found guilty of the manslaughter, (which, indeed, was forced upon him, and of which he repented most sincerely,) pleaded his clergy54, and so was discharged without any penalty. The widow of the slain55 nobleman, as it was told us in prison, showed an extraordinary spirit; and, though she had to wait for ten years before her son was old enough to compass it, declared she would have revenge of her husband’s murderer. So much and suddenly had grief, anger, and misfortune appeared to change her. But fortune, good or ill, as I take it, does not change men and women. It but develops their characters. As there are a thousand thoughts lying within a man that he does not know till he takes up the pen to write, so the heart is a secret even to him (or her) who has it in his own breast. Who hath not found himself surprised into revenge, or action, or passion, for good or evil, whereof the seeds lay within him, latent and unsuspected, until the occasion called them forth57? With the death of her lord, a change seemed to come over the whole conduct and mind of Lady Castlewood; but of this we shall speak in the right season and anon.
The lords being tried then before their peers at Westminster, according to their privilege, being brought from the Tower with state processions and barges58, and accompanied by lieutenants59 and axe-men, the commoners engaged in that melancholy fray60 took their trial at Newgate, as became them; and, being all found guilty, pleaded likewise their benefit of clergy. The sentence, as we all know in these cases, is, that the culprit lies a year in prison, or during the King’s pleasure, and is burned in the hand, or only stamped with a cold iron; or this part of the punishment is altogether remitted61 at the grace of the Sovereign. So Harry Esmond found himself a criminal and a prisoner at two-and-twenty years old; as for the two colonels, his comrades, they took the matter very lightly. Duelling was a part of their business; and they could not in honor refuse any invitations of that sort.
But the case was different with Mr. Esmond. His life was changed by that stroke of the sword which destroyed his kind patron’s. As he lay in prison, old Dr. Tusher fell ill and died; and Lady Castlewood appointed Thomas Tusher to the vacant living; about the filling of which she had a thousand times fondly talked to Harry Esmond: how they never should part; how he should educate her boy; how to be a country clergyman, like saintly George Herbert or pious63 Dr. Ken5, was the happiest and greatest lot in life; how (if he were obstinately64 bent65 on it, though, for her part, she owned rather to holding Queen Bess’s opinion, that a bishop66 should have no wife, and if not a bishop why a clergyman?) she would find a good wife for Harry Esmond: and so on, with a hundred pretty prospects67 told by fireside evenings, in fond prattle68, as the children played about the hall. All these plans were overthrown69 now. Thomas Tusher wrote to Esmond, as he lay in prison, announcing that his patroness had conferred upon him the living his reverend father had held for many years; that she never, after the tragical70 events which had occurred (whereof Tom spoke with a very edifying71 horror), could see in the revered Tusher’s pulpit, or at her son’s table, the man who was answerable for the father’s life; that her ladyship bade him to say that she prayed for her kinsman’s repentance and his worldly happiness; that he was free to command her aid for any scheme of life which he might propose to himself; but that on this side of the grave she would see him no more. And Tusher, for his own part, added that Harry should have his prayers as a friend of his youth, and commended him whilst he was in prison to read certain works of theology, which his Reverence72 pronounced to be very wholesome73 for sinners in his lamentable74 condition.
And this was the return for a life of devotion — this the end of years of affectionate intercourse75 and passionate fidelity! Harry would have died for his patron, and was held as little better than his murderer: he had sacrificed, she did not know how much, for his mistress, and she threw him aside; he had endowed her family with all they had, and she talked about giving him alms as to a menial! The grief for his patron’s loss; the pains of his own present position, and doubts as to the future: all these were forgotten under the sense of the consummate76 outrage77 which he had to endure, and overpowered by the superior pang78 of that torture.
He writ56 back a letter to Mr. Tusher from his prison, congratulating his Reverence upon his appointment to the living of Castlewood: sarcastically79 bidding him to follow in the footsteps of his admirable father, whose gown had descended80 upon him; thanking her ladyship for her offer of alms, which he said he should trust not to need; and beseeching81 her to remember that, if ever her determination should change towards him, he would be ready to give her proofs of a fidelity which had never wavered, and which ought never to have been questioned by that house. “And if we meet no more, or only as strangers in this world,” Mr. Esmond concluded, “a sentence against the cruelty and injustice82 of which I disdain83 to appeal; hereafter she will know who was faithful to her, and whether she had any cause to suspect the love and devotion of her kinsman and servant.”
After the sending of this letter, the poor young fellow’s mind was more at ease than it had been previously84. The blow had been struck, and he had borne it. His cruel goddess had shaken her wings and fled: and left him alone and friendless, but virtute sua. And he had to bear him up, at once the sense of his right and the feeling of his wrongs, his honor and his misfortune. As I have seen men waking and running to arms at a sudden trumpet85, before emergency a manly86 heart leaps up resolute87; meets the threatening danger with undaunted countenance88; and, whether conquered or conquering, faces it always. Ah! no man knows his strength or his weakness, till occasion proves them. If there be some thoughts and actions of his life from the memory of which a man shrinks with shame, sure there are some which he may be proud to own and remember; forgiven injuries, conquered temptations (now and then) and difficulties vanquished89 by endurance.
It was these thoughts regarding the living, far more than any great poignancy90 of grief respecting the dead, which affected91 Harry Esmond whilst in prison after his trial: but it may be imagined that he could take no comrade of misfortune into the confidence of his feelings, and they thought it was remorse and sorrow for his patron’s loss which affected the young man, in error of which opinion he chose to leave them. As a companion he was so moody92 and silent that the two officers, his fellow-sufferers, left him to himself mostly, liked little very likely what they knew of him, consoled themselves with dice93, cards, and the bottle, and whiled away their own captivity94 in their own way. It seemed to Esmond as if he lived years in that prison: and was changed and aged20 when he came out of it. At certain periods of life we live years of emotion in a few weeks — and look back on those times, as on great gaps between the old life and the new. You do not know how much you suffer in those critical maladies of the heart, until the disease is over and you look back on it afterwards. During the time, the suffering is at least sufferable. The day passes in more or less of pain, and the night wears away somehow. ’Tis only in after days that we see what the danger has been — as a man out a-hunting or riding for his life looks at a leap, and wonders how he should have survived the taking of it. O dark months of grief and rage! of wrong and cruel endurance! He is old now who recalls you. Long ago he has forgiven and blest the soft hand that wounded him: but the mark is there, and the wound is cicatrized only — no time, tears, caresses95, or repentance, can obliterate96 the scar. We are indocile to put up with grief, however. Reficimus rates quassas: we tempt11 the ocean again and again, and try upon new ventures. Esmond thought of his early time as a novitiate, and of this past trial as an initiation97 before entering into life — as our young Indians undergo tortures silently before they pass to the rank of warriors98 in the tribe.
The officers, meanwhile, who were not let into the secret of the grief which was gnawing99 at the side of their silent young friend, and being accustomed to such transactions, in which one comrade or another was daily paying the forfeit100 of the sword, did not, of course, bemoan101 themselves very inconsolably about the fate of their late companion in arms. This one told stories of former adventures of love, or war, or pleasure, in which poor Frank Esmond had been engaged; t’other recollected102 how a constable103 had been bilked, or a tavern-bully beaten: whilst my lord’s poor widow was sitting at his tomb worshipping him as an actual saint and spotless hero — so the visitors said who had news of Lady Castlewood; and Westbury and Macartney had pretty nearly had all the town to come and see them.
The duel62, its fatal termination, the trial of the two peers and the three commoners concerned, had caused the greatest excitement in the town. The prints and News Letters were full of them. The three gentlemen in Newgate were almost as much crowded as the bishops104 in the Tower, or a highwayman before execution. We were allowed to live in the Governor’s house, as hath been said, both before trial and after condemnation105, waiting the King’s pleasure; nor was the real cause of the fatal quarrel known, so closely had my lord and the two other persons who knew it kept the secret, but every one imagined that the origin of the meeting was a gambling106 dispute. Except fresh air, the prisoners had, upon payment, most things they could desire. Interest was made that they should not mix with the vulgar convicts, whose ribald choruses and loud laughter and curses could be heard from their own part of the prison, where they and the miserable107 debtors108 were confined pell-mell.
收听单词发音 |
1
revered
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| v.崇敬，尊崇，敬畏( revere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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kinsman
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| n.男亲属 | |
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equity
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| n.公正，公平，（无固定利息的）股票 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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impeach
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| v.弹劾；检举 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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repenting
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的现在分词 ) | |
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benefactor
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| n. 恩人，行善的人，捐助人 | |
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inflamed
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| adj.发炎的，红肿的v.（使）变红，发怒，过热( inflame的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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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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avert
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| v.防止，避免；转移(目光、注意力等) | |
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calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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beholding
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| v.看，注视( behold的现在分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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besought
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| v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的过去式和过去分词 )；(beseech的过去式与过去分词) | |
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boded
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| v.预示，预告，预言( bode的过去式和过去分词 )；等待，停留( bide的过去分词 )；居住；（过去式用bided）等待 | |
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delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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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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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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malign
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| adj.有害的；恶性的；恶意的；v.诽谤，诬蔑 | |
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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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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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cipher
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| n.零；无影响力的人；密码 | |
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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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lodger
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| n.寄宿人，房客 | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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46
repented
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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48
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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bauble
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| n.美观而无价值的饰物 | |
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embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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51
reigns
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| n.君主的统治( reign的名词复数 )；君主统治时期；任期；当政期 | |
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52
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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53
steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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54
clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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55
slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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writ
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| n.命令状，书面命令 | |
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57
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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58
barges
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| 驳船( barge的名词复数 ) | |
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59
lieutenants
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| n.陆军中尉( lieutenant的名词复数 )；副职官员；空军；仅低于…官阶的官员 | |
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60
fray
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| v.争吵；打斗；磨损，磨破；n.吵架；打斗 | |
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remitted
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| v.免除（债务），宽恕( remit的过去式和过去分词 )；使某事缓和；寄回，传送 | |
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62
duel
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| n./v.决斗；(双方的)斗争 | |
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pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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prattle
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| n.闲谈；v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话；发出连续而无意义的声音 | |
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overthrown
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| adj. 打翻的，推倒的，倾覆的 动词overthrow的过去分词 | |
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tragical
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| adj. 悲剧的, 悲剧性的 | |
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edifying
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| adj.有教训意味的，教训性的，有益的v.开导，启发( edify的现在分词 ) | |
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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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wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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lamentable
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| adj.令人惋惜的，悔恨的 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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consummate
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| adj.完美的；v.成婚；使完美 [反]baffle | |
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outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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sarcastically
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| adv.挖苦地，讽刺地 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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beseeching
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| adj.恳求似的v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的现在分词 ) | |
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injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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85
trumpet
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| n.喇叭，喇叭声；v.吹喇叭，吹嘘 | |
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86
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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88
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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vanquished
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| v.征服( vanquish的过去式和过去分词 )；战胜；克服；抑制 | |
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poignancy
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| n.辛酸事，尖锐 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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92
moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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93
dice
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| n.骰子；vt.把（食物）切成小方块，冒险 | |
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94
captivity
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| n.囚禁；被俘；束缚 | |
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caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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96
obliterate
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| v.擦去，涂抹，去掉...痕迹，消失，除去 | |
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initiation
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| n.开始 | |
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warriors
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| 武士，勇士，战士( warrior的名词复数 ) | |
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99
gnawing
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| a.痛苦的，折磨人的 | |
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100
forfeit
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| vt.丧失；n.罚金，罚款，没收物 | |
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101
bemoan
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| v.悲叹，哀泣，痛哭；惋惜，不满于 | |
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102
recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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103
constable
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| n.(英国)警察，警官 | |
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104
bishops
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| （基督教某些教派管辖大教区的）主教( bishop的名词复数 )； （国际象棋的）象 | |
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105
condemnation
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| n.谴责; 定罪 | |
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106
gambling
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| n.赌博；投机 | |
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107
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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108
debtors
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| n.债务人，借方( debtor的名词复数 ) | |
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