巴斯克维尔的猎犬 沼地的惨剧（1）

Chapter 12 - Death on the Moor

第十二章 沼地的惨剧

For a moment or two I sat breathless, hardly able to believe my ears. Then my senses and myvoice came back to me, while a crushing weight of responsibility seemed in an instant to be liftedfrom my soul. That cold, incisive, ironical voice could belong to but one man in all the world.

我屏息在那里坐了一两分钟， 简直不能相信我的耳朵。 后来， 我的神志清醒了， 也能够说话了， 同时那极为沉重的责任好象马上从我心上卸了下来。 因为那种冰冷、 尖锐和嘲讽的声音只可能属于那个人。

"Holmes!" I cried -- "Holmes!"

“福尔摩斯！” 我喊了起来，“福尔摩斯！”

"Come out," said he, "and please be careful with the revolver."“出来吧！” 他说道， “请当心你那支左轮手枪。”

I stooped under the rude lintel, and there he sat upon a stone outside, his gray eyes dancingwith amusement as they fell upon my astonished features. He was thin and worn, but clear andalert, his keen face bronzed by the sun and roughened by the wind. In his tweed suit and cloth caphe looked like any other tourist upon the moor, and he had contrived, with that catlike love ofpersonal cleanliness which was one of his characteristics, that his chin should be as smooth andhis linen as perfect as if he were in Baker Street.

我在粗糙的门框下面弓着身 ， 看到他在外面的一块石头上坐着。 当他看到我那吃惊的表情的时候， 他那灰色的眼睛高兴得转动起来。 他显得又瘦又黑， 可是清醒而机警， 他那机灵的面孔被太阳晒成了 棕色， 被风砂吹得粗糙了。 他身穿苏格兰呢的衣服， 头戴布帽， 看起来和任何在沼地上旅行的人完全一样， 他竟还能象猫那样地爱护着个人的清洁， 这是他的一个特点， 他的下巴还是刮得光光的， 衣服也还象是住在贝克街时一样的清洁。