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Reading books fiction 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.



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Read books online » Fiction » Westward Ho! Or, The Voyages and Adventures of Sir Amyas Leigh, Knight, of Burrough, in the County of Devon, in the Reign of Her Most Glorious Majesty Queen Elizabeth by - (acx book reading .TXT) 📖
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Book online «Westward Ho! Or, The Voyages and Adventures of Sir Amyas Leigh, Knight, of Burrough, in the County of Devon, in the Reign of Her Most Glorious Majesty Queen Elizabeth by - (acx book reading .TXT) 📖». Author -



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I did it; but the old ox nursed it in both hands all the while.”

“What shall we do, in the name of all the fiends? She sails to-morrow morning, and then all is lost.”

Tita showed her white teeth, and touched the dagger which hung by the intendant's side.

“I dare not!” said the rascal, with a shudder.

“I dare!” said she. “He whipt my mother, because she would not give me up to him to be taught in his schools, when she went to the mines. And she went to the mines, and died there in three months. I saw her go, with a chain round her neck; but she never came back again. Yes; I dare kill him! I will kill him! I will!”

The senor felt his mind much relieved. He had no wish, of course, to commit the murder himself; for he was a good Catholic, and feared the devil. But Tita was an Indian, and her being lost did not matter so much. Indians' souls were cheap, like their bodies. So he answered, “But we shall be discovered!”

“I will leap out of the window with the casket, and swim ashore. They will never suspect you, and they will fancy I am drowned.”

“The sharks may seize you, Tita. You had better give me the casket.”

Tita smiled. “You would not like to lose that, eh? though you care little about losing me. And yet you told me that you loved me!”

“And I do love you, Tita! light of my eyes! life of my heart! I swear, by all the saints, I love you. I will marry you, I swear I will—I will swear on the crucifix, if you like!”

“Swear, then, or I do not give you the casket,” said she, holding out the little crucifix round her neck, and devouring him with the wild eyes of passionate unreasoning tropic love.

He swore, trembling, and deadly pale.

“Give me your dagger.”

“No, not mine. It may be found. I shall be suspected. What if my sheath were seen to be empty?”

“Your knife will do. His throat is soft enough.”

And she glided stealthily as a cat toward the hammock, while her cowardly companion stood shivering at the other end of the cabin, and turned his back to her, that he might not see the deed.

He stood waiting, one minute—two—five? Was it an hour, rather? A cold sweat bathed his limbs; the blood beat so fiercely within his temples, that his head rang again. Was that a death-bell tolling? No; it was the pulses of his brain. Impossible, surely, a death-bell. Whence could it come?

There was a struggle—ah! she was about it now; a stifled cry—Ah! he had dreaded that most of all, to hear the old man cry. Would there be much blood? He hoped not. Another struggle, and Tita's voice, apparently muffled, called for help.

“I cannot help you. Mother of Mercies! I dare not help you!” hissed he. “She-devil! you have begun it, and you must finish it yourself!”

A heavy arm from behind clasped his throat. The bishop had broken loose from her and seized him! Or was it his ghost? or a fiend come to drag him down to the pit? And forgetting all but mere wild terror, he opened his lips for a scream, which would have wakened every soul on board. But a handkerchief was thrust into his mouth and in another minute he found himself bound hand and foot, and laid upon the table by a gigantic enemy. The cabin was full of armed men, two of whom were lashing up the bishop in his hammock; two more had seized Tita; and more were clambering up into the stern-gallery beyond, wild figures, with bright blades and armor gleaming in the starlight.

“Now, Will,” whispered the giant who had seized him, “forward and clap the fore-hatches on; and shout Fire! with all your might. Girl! murderess! your life is in my hands. Tell me where the commander sleeps, and I pardon you.”

Tita looked up at the huge speaker, and obeyed in silence. The intendant heard him enter the colonel's cabin, and then a short scuffle, and silence for a moment.

But only for a moment; for already the alarm had been given, and mad confusion reigned through every deck. Amyas (for it was none other) had already gained the poop; the sentinels were gagged and bound; and every half-naked wretch who came trembling up on deck in his shirt by the main hatchway, calling one, “Fire!” another, “Wreck!” and another, “Treason!” was hurled into the scuppers, and there secured.

“Lower away that boat!” shouted Amyas in Spanish to his first batch of prisoners.

The men, unarmed and naked, could but obey.

“Now then, jump in. Here, hand them to the gangway as they come up.”

It was done; and as each appeared he was kicked to the scuppers, and bundled down over the side.

“She's full. Cast loose now and off with you. If you try to board again we'll sink you.”

“Fire! fire!” shouted Cary, forward. “Up the main hatchway for your lives!”

The ruse succeeded utterly; and before half-an-hour was over, all the ship's boats which could be lowered were filled with Spaniards in their shirts, getting ashore as best they could.

“Here is a new sort of camisado,” quoth Cary. “The last Spanish one I saw was at the sortie from Smerwick: but this is somewhat more prosperous than that.”

“Get the main and foresail up, Will!” said Amyas, “cut the cable; and we will plume the quarry as we fly.”

“Spoken like a good falconer. Heaven grant that this big woodcock may carry a good trail inside!”

“I'll warrant her for that,” said Jack Brimblecombe. “She floats so low.”

“Much of your build, too, Jack. By the by, where is the commander?”

Alas! Don Pedro, forgotten in the bustle, had been lying on the deck in his shirt, helplessly bound, exhausting that part of his vocabulary which related to the unseen world. Which most discourteous act seemed at first likely to be somewhat heavily avenged on Amyas; for as he spoke, a couple of caliver-shots, fired from under the poop, passed “ping” “ping” by his ears, and Cary clapped his hand to his side.

“Hurt, Will?”

“A pinch, old lad—Look out, or we are 'allen verloren' after all, as the Flemings say.”

And as he spoke, a rush forward on the poop drove two of their best men down the ladder into the waist, where Amyas stood.

“Killed?” asked he, as he picked one up, who had fallen head over heels.

“Sound as a bell, sir: but they Gentiles has got hold of the firearms, and set the captain

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