Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. The Hot Swamp by R. M. Ballantyne (latest novels to read .txt) 📖
- Author: R. M. Ballantyne
Book online «The Hot Swamp by R. M. Ballantyne (latest novels to read .txt) 📖». Author R. M. Ballantyne
By this time the king had recovered, and realised the fact that his long-lost son had returned home. He strode towards him, and, grasping his hand, essayed to speak, but something in his throat rendered speech impossible. King Hudibras was a stern man, however, and scorned to show womanly weakness before his people. He turned suddenly round, kicked a few courtiers out of his way, remounted the platform, and, in a loud voice, announced the conclusion of the sports.
Great was the rejoicing among the people assembled there, when the news spread that the long-lost Prince Bladud had returned home, and that the tall youth who had defeated Gunrig was he, and they cheered him with even more zest and energy than they had at the moment of his victory.
Meanwhile Gunrig, having been conveyed to the residence of the king, was laid on a couch. The palace was, we need scarcely say, very unlike our modern palaces, being merely a large hut or rude shanty of logs, surrounded by hundreds of similar but smaller huts, which composed this primitive town. The couch on which the chief lay was composed of brushwood and leaves. But Gunrig did not lie long upon it. He was a tough man, as well as a stout, and he had almost recovered consciousness when the princess, returning from the games, arrived to assist her friend in attending to the king’s commands.
She found Branwen about to enter the chamber, in which the chief lay, with a bandage.
“Hast heard the news?” she asked, with a gladsome smile.
“Not I,” replied Branwen, in a rather sharp tone.
“Whatever it is, it seems to have made you happy.”
“Truly it has. But let us go in with the bandages first. The news is too good to be told in a hurry.”
The sound of their voices as they entered aroused Gunrig completely, and he rose up as they approached.
“My father sent us,” said the princess in some confusion, “to see that you are well cared for. Your wounds, I hope, are not dangerous?”
“Dangerous, no; and they will not prevent me from speedily avenging myself on the young upstart who has appeared so suddenly to claim you for a bride. Stay, you need not go so quickly, or toss your head in pride. I will stand by my word, and let him keep who wins. But I have a word to say to you, Branwen. Come along with me.”
Wooers among the ancient Albionites were not, it would seem, celebrated for politeness—some of them, at least! The chief seized the shrinking girl by the wrist as he spoke, and led her out of the house and into a neighbouring thicket, where he bade her sit down on a fallen tree.
“Now,” he said, sitting down beside her, and putting his arm round her waist, despite her objections, “this young turkey-cock has fairly won Hafrydda, and he is welcome to her for all that I care—that is, if he lives to claim her hand after our next meeting, for, since I’ve seen your pretty face, Branwen, I would rather wed you than the fairest lass that ever owned to Norland blood. What say you to take the princess’s place and become my wife?”
“Oh! no, no,” exclaimed Branwen, in great distress, trying to disengage his arm, “you love Hafrydda, and it is impossible that you can love us both! Let me go.”
“I’m not so sure that I ever really cared for the princess,” replied the chief; “but of this I am quite sure, that I never loved her half as much as I love you, Branwen.”
The girl tore herself away from him, and, standing up with flushed face and flashing eyes, exclaimed—
“Shame would crush you, if you were a brave man, for uttering such a speech. But you are not brave; you are a coward, and your late opponent will teach you that. Be sure that I will never consent to wed one who is a disgrace to manhood.”
A fierce scowl crossed Gunrig’s swarthy countenance, but it passed in a moment, and a look of admiration replaced it as he looked up with a smile.
“I like maids with your temper,” he said, still keeping his seat, “but you forget that if the king so wills it, you shall be compelled to accept me, and I think the king will scarce dare to thwart my wishes, especially now that another man has a right to the princess.”
“I defy you,” returned the girl, still at a white heat of indignation, “and if the king tries to force me to wed you, I will defy him too! The young stranger will be my champion—or, if he should refuse, there are other ways by which a helpless girl may escape from tyrants.”
She turned with these words and fled. Gunrig sprang up to pursue, but, fortunately for the girl, a modest bramble, that scarce ventured to raise its branches above the ground, caught his foot and sent him headlong into a rotten stump, which seemed only too ready to receive him. Extracting his head from its embrace, he stood up in a bewildered frame of mind, found that the light-footed Branwen had escaped him, and sat down again on the fallen tree to recover his equanimity.
Meanwhile the poor girl ran back to the palace, rushed into Hafrydda’s room, threw herself on a couch, and burst into tears.
This was such an unwonted exhibition of weakness in Branwen that the princess stood looking at her for a few moments in silent surprise. Then she sought to comfort her, and made her relate, bit by bit, with many a sob between, what had occurred.
“But why do you cry so bitterly?” asked Hafrydda. “It is so unlike you to give way to despair. Besides, you defied him, you say, and you were right to do so, for my dear father will never force you to wed against your wishes.”
“I know better,” returned the other, with some bitterness. “Did he not intend to make you wed against your wishes?”
“That is true,” replied the gentle Hafrydda, with a sigh. “But I am saved from that now,” she added, brightening up suddenly, “and that reminds me of the good news. Do you know who the handsome youth is who rescued me from this monster?”
“No, I don’t; and I’m sure I don’t care,” answered Branwen, with a touch of petulance. “At all events, I suppose you will be glad of the change of husbands.”
“He will never be my husband,” returned the princess, somewhat amused by her friend’s tone, for she suspected the cause. “He is my brother Bladud—my long-lost brother!”
The change that came over Branwen’s pretty face on hearing this was remarkable.
“Your brother!” she exclaimed. “No wonder that he is beautiful, as well as brave!”
A merry laugh broke from the princess as she kissed her friend. “Well, but,” she said, “what will you do? You know that always, when I have been perplexed or in trouble, I have come to you for help and advice. Now that things are turned the other way, I know not what advice to give you.”
“I have settled what to do,” answered Branwen, drying her eyes, and looking up with the air of one whose mind has been suddenly and firmly made up. “Your father, I know, will consent to Gunrig’s wishes. If he did not, there would be war again—horrible war—between the tribes. I will never be the cause of that if I can help it. At the same time, it would kill me to wed with Gunrig. I would rather die than that; therefore—I will run away.”
“And leave me?” exclaimed the princess anxiously.
“Well, I should have to leave you, at any rate, if I stay and am compelled to marry Gunrig.”
“But where will you run to?”
“That I will not tell, lest you should be tempted to tell lies to your father. Just be content to know that I shall not be far away, and that in good time you shall hear from me. Farewell, dear Hafrydda, I dare not stay, for that—that monster will not be long in hatching and carrying out some vile plot—farewell.”
About three miles beyond the outskirts of King Hudibras’ town—the name of which has now, like many other things, been lost in the proverbial mists of antiquity—an old man dwelt in a sequestered part of the forest. His residence was a dry cave at the foot of a cliff, or, rather, a rude hut which, resting against the cliff, absorbed the cave, so to speak, into its rear premises.
The old man had a somewhat aquiline nose, a long white beard, and a grave, but kindly, expression of countenance. He was one of the sons of Israel—at that time not a despised race. Although aged he was neither bowed nor weak, but bore himself with the uprightness and vigour of a man in his prime. When at home, this man seemed to occupy his time chiefly in gathering firewood, cooking food, sleeping, and reading in a small roll of Egyptian papyrus which he carried constantly in his bosom.
He was well known, far and near, as Beniah the merchant, who trafficked with the Phoenician shipmen; was a sort of go-between with them and the surrounding tribes, and carried his wares from place to place far and wide through the land. He was possessed of a wonderful amount of curious knowledge, and, although he spoke little, he contrived in the little he said to make a favourable impression on men and women. Being obliging as well as kind, and also exceedingly useful, people not only respected Beniah, but treated him as a sort of semi-sacred being who was not to be interfered with in any way. Even robbers—of whom there were not a few in those days—respected the Hebrew’s property; passed by his hut with looks of solemnity, if not of awe, and allowed him to come and go unchallenged.
Most people liked Beniah. A few feared him, and a still smaller number—cynics, who have existed since the days of Adam—held him to be in league with evil spirits. He was a tall, stalwart man, and carried a staff of oak about six feet long, as a support during his travels. It had somehow come to be understood that, although Beniah was pre-eminently a man of peace, it was nevertheless advisable to treat him with civility or to keep well out of the range of that oaken staff. Possibly this opinion may have been founded on the fact that, on one occasion, three big runaway Phoenician seamen, who thought they would prefer a life in the woods to a life on the ocean wave, had one evening been directed to Beniah’s hut as a place where strangers were never refused hospitality when they asked it with civility. As those three seamen made their appearance in the town that same evening, in a very sulky state of mind, with three broken heads, it was conjectured that they had omitted the civility—either on purpose or by accident. Be this as it may, Beniah and his six-foot staff had become objects of profound respect.
Evening was drawing on and Beniah was sitting on a stool beside his open door, enjoying the sunshine that penetrated his umbrageous retreat, and reading the papyrus scroll already referred to, when the figure of a woman approached him with timid, hesitating steps. At first the Hebrew did not observe her, but, as she drew nearer, the crackling of branches under her light footsteps aroused him. He looked up quickly, and the woman, running forward, stood before him with clasped hands.
“Oh! sir,” she exclaimed, “have pity on me! I come to claim your protection.”
“Such protection as you need and I can give you shall have, my daughter; but it is a strange request to make of such a man, in such a place, and at such a time. Moreover, your voice
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