Read FICTION books online

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.



Fiction genre suitable for people of all ages. Everyone will find something interesting for themselves. Our electronic library is always at your service. Reading online free books without registration. Nowadays ebooks are convenient and efficient. After all, don’t forget: literature exists and develops largely thanks to readers.
The genre of fiction is interesting to read not only by the process of cognition and the desire to empathize with the fate of the hero, this genre is interesting for the ability to rethink one's own life. Of course the reader may accept the author's point of view or disagree with them, but the reader should understand that the author has done a great job and deserves respect. Take a closer look at genre fiction in all its manifestations in our elibrary.



Read books online » Fiction » Lysbeth, a Tale of the Dutch by H. Rider Haggard (reading in the dark .TXT) 📖

Book online «Lysbeth, a Tale of the Dutch by H. Rider Haggard (reading in the dark .TXT) đŸ“–Â». Author H. Rider Haggard



1 ... 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 ... 73
Go to page:
this sword, but that somehow you managed to steal it first and got away.”

“There was something of the sort,” mumbled Martin, “but it is so long ago that it slips my mind. I was so often in broils and drunk in those days—may the dear Lord forgive me—that I can’t quite remember things. And now, by your leave, I want to go to sleep.”

“You old liar,” said Foy shaking his head at him, “you killed that poor executioner and made off with his sword. You know you did, and now you are ashamed to own the truth.”

“May be, may be,” answered Martin vacuously; “so many things happen in the world that a fool man cannot remember them all. I want to go to sleep.”

“Martin,” said Foy, sitting down upon a stool and dragging off his leather jerkin, “what used you to do before you turned holy? You have never told me all the story. Come now, speak up. I won’t tell Adrian.”

“Nothing worth mentioning, Master Foy.”

“Out with it, Martin.”

“Well, if you wish to know, I am the son of a Friesland boor.”

“—And an Englishwoman from Yarmouth: I know all that.”

“Yes,” repeated Martin, “an Englishwoman from Yarmouth. She was very strong, my mother; she could hold up a cart on her shoulders while my father greased the wheels, that is for a bet; otherwise she used to make my father hold the cart up while she greased the wheels. Folk would come to see her do the trick. When I grew up I held the cart and they both greased the wheels. But at last they died of the plague, the pair of them, God rest their souls! So I inherited the farm——”

“And—” said Foy, fixing him with his eye.

“And,” jerked out Martin in an unwilling fashion, “fell into bad habits.”

“Drink?” suggested the merciless Foy.

Martin sighed and hung his great head. He had a tender conscience.

“Then you took to prize-fighting,” went on his tormentor; “you can’t deny it; look at your nose.”

“I did, master, for the Lord hadn’t touched my heart in those days, and,” he added, brisking up, “it wasn’t such a bad trade, for nobody ever beat me except a Brussels man once when I was drunk. He broke my nose, but afterwards, when I was sober—” and he stopped.

“You killed the Spanish boxer here in Leyden,” said Foy sternly.

“Yes,” echoed Martin, “I killed him sure enough, but—oh! it was a pretty fight, and he brought it on himself. He was a fine man, that Spaniard, but the devil wouldn’t play fair, so I just had to kill him. I hope that they bear in mind up above that I had to kill him.”

“Tell me about it, Martin, for I was at The Hague at the time, and can’t remember. Of course I don’t approve of such things”—and the young rascal clasped his hands and looked pious—“but as it is all done with, one may as well hear the story of the fight. To spin it won’t make you more wicked than you are.”

Then suddenly Martin the unreminiscent developed a marvellous memory, and with much wealth of detail set out the exact circumstances of that historic encounter.

“And after he had kicked me in the stomach,” he ended, “which, master, you will know he had no right to do, I lost my temper and hit out with all my strength, having first feinted and knocked up his guard with my left arm——”

“And then,” said Foy, growing excited, for Martin really told the story very well, “what happened?”

“Oh, his head went back between his shoulders, and when they picked him up, his neck was broken. I was sorry, but I couldn’t help it, the Lord knows I couldn’t help it; he shouldn’t have called me ‘a dirty Frisian ox’ and kicked me in the stomach.”

“No, that was very wrong of him. But they arrested you, didn’t they, Martin?”

“Yes, for the second time they condemned me to death as a brawler and a manslayer. You see, the other Friesland business came up against me, and the magistrates here had money on the Spaniard. Then your dear father saved me. He was burgomaster of that year, and he paid the death fine for me—a large sum—afterwards, too, he taught me to be sober and think of my soul. So you know why Red Martin will serve him and his while there is a drop of blood left in his worthless carcase. And now, Master Foy, I’m going to sleep, and God grant that those dirty Spanish dogs mayn’t haunt me.”

“Don’t you fear for that, Martin,” said Foy as he took his departure, “absolvo te for those Spaniards. Through your strength God smote them who were not ashamed to rob and insult a poor new widowed woman after helping to murder her husband. Yes, Martin, you may enter that on the right side of the ledger—for a change—for they won’t haunt you at night. I’m more afraid lest the business should be traced home to us, but I don’t think it likely since the street was quite empty.”

“Quite empty,” echoed Martin nodding his head. “Nobody saw me except the two soldiers and Vrouw Jansen. They can’t tell, and I’m sure that she won’t. Good-night, my young master.”

CHAPTER X
ADRIAN GOES OUT HAWKING

In a house down a back street not very far from the Leyden prison, a man and a woman sat at breakfast on the morning following the burning of the Heer Jansen and his fellow martyr. These also we have met before, for they were none other than the estimable Black Meg and her companion, named the Butcher. Time, which had left them both strong and active, had not, it must be admitted, improved their personal appearance. Black Meg, indeed, was much as she had always been, except that her hair was now grey and her features, which seemed to be covered with yellow parchment, had become sharp and haglike, though her dark eyes still burned with their ancient fire. The man, Hague Simon, or the Butcher, scoundrel by nature and spy and thief by trade, one of the evil spawn of an age of violence and cruelty, boasted a face and form that became his reputation well. His countenance was villainous, very fat and flabby, with small, pig-like eyes, and framed, as it were, in a fringe of sandy-coloured whiskers, running from the throat to the temple, where they faded away into a great expanse of utterly bald head. The figure beneath was heavy, pot-haunched, and supported upon a pair of bowed but sturdy legs.

But if they were no longer young, and such good looks as they ever possessed had vanished, the years had brought them certain compensations. Indeed, it was a period in which spies and all such wretches flourished, since, besides other pickings, by special enactment a good proportion of the realized estates of heretics was paid over to the informers as blood-money. Of course, however, humble tools like the Butcher and his wife did not get the largest joints of the heretic sheep, for whenever one was slaughtered, there were always many honest middlemen of various degree to be satisfied, from the judge down to the executioner, with others who never showed their faces.

Still, when the burnings and torturings were brisk, the amount totalled up very handsomely. Thus, as the pair sat at their meal this morning, they were engaged in figuring out what they might expect to receive from the estate of the late Heer Jansen, or at least Black Meg was so employed with the help of a deal board and a bit of chalk. At last she announced the result, which was satisfactory. Simon held up his fat hands in admiration.

“Clever little dove,” he said, “you ought to have been a lawyer’s wife with your head for figures. Ah! it grows near, it grows near.”

“What grows near, you fool?” asked Meg in her deep mannish voice.

“That farm with an inn attached of which I dream, standing in rich pasture land with a little wood behind it, and in the wood a church. Not too large; no, I am not ambitious; let us say a hundred acres, enough to keep thirty or forty cows, which you would milk while I marketed the butter and the cheeses——”

“And slit the throats of the guests,” interpolated Meg.

Simon looked shocked. “No, wife, you misjudge me. It is a rough world, and we must take queer cuts to fortune, but once I get there, respectability for me and a seat in the village church, provided, of course, that it is orthodox. I know that you come of the people, and your instincts are of the people, but I can never forget that my grandfather was a gentleman,” and Simon puffed himself out and looked at the ceiling.

“Indeed,” sneered Meg, “and what was your grandmother, or, for the matter of that, how do you know who was your grandfather? Country house! The old Red Mill, where you hide goods out there in the swamp, is likely to be your only country house. Village church? Village gallows more likely. No, don’t you look nasty at me, for I won’t stand it, you dirty little liar. I have done things, I know; but I wouldn’t have got my own aunt burned for an Anabaptist, which she wasn’t, in order to earn twenty florins, so there.”

Simon turned purple with rage; that aunt story was one which touched him on the raw. “Ugly——” he began.

Instantly Meg’s hand shot out and grasped the neck of a bottle, whereon he changed his tune.

“The sex, the sex!” he murmured, turning aside to mop his bald head with a napkin; “well, it’s only their pretty way, they will have their little joke. Hullo, there is someone knocking at the door.”

“And mind how you open it,” said Meg, becoming alert. “Remember we have plenty of enemies, and a pike blade comes through a small crack.”

“Can you live with the wise and remain a greenhorn? Trust me.” And placing his arm about his spouse’s waist, Simon stood on tiptoe and kissed her gently on the cheek in token of reconciliation, for Meg had a nasty memory in quarrels. Then he skipped away towards the door as fast as his bandy legs would carry him.

The colloquy there was long and for the most part carried on through the keyhole, but in the end their visitor was admitted, a beetle-browed brute of much the same stamp as his host.

“You are nice ones,” he said sulkily, “to be so suspicious about an old friend, especially when he comes on a job.”

“Don’t be angry, dear Hans,” interrupted Simon in a pleading voice. “You know how many bad characters are abroad in these rough times; why, for aught we could tell, you might have been one of these desperate Lutherans, who stick at nothing. But about the business?”

“Lutherans, indeed,” snarled Hans; “well, if they are wise they’d stick at your fat stomach; but it is a Lutheran job that I have come from The Hague to talk about.”

“Ah!” said Meg, “who sent you?”

“A Spaniard named Ramiro, who has recently turned up there, a humorous dog connected with the Inquisition, who seems to know everybody and whom nobody knows. However, his money is right enough, and no doubt he has authority behind him. He says that you are old friends of his.”

“Ramiro? Ramiro?” repeated Meg reflectively, “that means Oarsman, doesn’t it, and sounds like an alias? Well, I’ve lots of acquaintances in the galleys, and he may be one of them. What does he want, and what are the terms?”

Hans leant forward and whispered for a long while. The other two listened in silence, only nodding from time to time.

“It doesn’t seem much for the job,” said Simon when Hans had finished.

“Well, friend, it is easy and safe; a fat merchant and his wife and a young girl. Mind you, there is no killing to be done if we can help it, and if we can’t help it the Holy Office will shield us. Also it is only the letter which he thinks that the young woman may carry that the noble Ramiro wants. Doubtless it has to do with the sacred affairs of the Church. Any valuables about them we may keep as a perquisite over and above the pay.”

Simon hesitated, but Meg announced with decision,

“It is good enough; these merchant woman generally have jewels hidden in their stays.”

“My dear,” interrupted Simon.

“Don’t ‘my dear’ me,” said Meg fiercely. “I have made up my mind, so there’s an end. We meet by the Boshhuysen at five o’clock at the big oak in the copse, where we will settle the details.”

After this Simon said no more, for he had this virtue, so useful in domestic life—he knew when to yield.

On this same morning

1 ... 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 ... 73
Go to page:

Free ebook «Lysbeth, a Tale of the Dutch by H. Rider Haggard (reading in the dark .TXT) đŸ“–Â» - read online now

Comments (0)

There are no comments yet. You can be the first!
Add a comment