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 Rover of the Andes: A Tale of Adventure on South America by R. M. Ballantyne (best books to read for students .TXT) 📖
- Author: R. M. Ballantyne
Book online «The Rover of the Andes: A Tale of Adventure on South America by R. M. Ballantyne (best books to read for students .TXT) 📖». Author R. M. Ballantyne
The estancia, previously referred to by the colonel, stood on a slight eminence surrounded by the grove of algaroba-trees from which it derived its name. The fruit of this tree forms excellent food for cattle, and Lawrence found himself busily engaged during the first hour after arrival in procuring it for his mules, and otherwise looking after his charge. When this duty was done, feeling no disposition to join his comrades at supper, he sauntered into a garden in rear of the estancia, where he found a rustic seat under an algaroba-tree, and sat down to meditate.
It was a calm, peaceful, moonlight night, with an air, so he felt, of sadness about it which harmonised with his melancholy thoughts. He now believed he saw through Colonel Marchbanks’s plan, and had given up all hope of seeing Manuela again. In these circumstances, being a man of submissive spirit yet powerful will, he set himself resolutely to think of the important object in which he was engaged. Somewhat thus his meditations ran—
“I am no soldier, but I am a man, and I should be less than a man—unworthy to live—if I were not ready to help in the rescue of women and children. Some of the girls, poor things, may be like Manu— that is—. Now, although I hate war, and do not approve of settling disputes by the sword, I feel that self-defence, or the defence of the helpless, justifies war,—ay, to the knife. Of course it does. Was I not thoroughly justified in fighting the robbers when Manu—. Well, then, let me think it out. A thing is not properly thought at all until it is thought out, and found out. Talking of that, how fortunate that Pedro’s little daughter was found out. It is most interesting! I delight to think of her. And she’s so pretty, too—quite beautiful, though, of course, not so beautiful as Man—”
“Bother Manuela!” he exclaimed aloud, starting up.
As he spoke, Manuela herself—the princess of the Incas—stood before him!
In order to account for this sudden miscarriage of the colonel’s plans, we must turn aside to state that the princess, being of an active disposition, and not easily tired, had said to Pedro that evening, when his detachment was encamping under a group of trees not far from the estancia, that she would ride back to the main body to see her father.
“But my strict orders are,” said Pedro, “that I am to keep you with the advance-guard, and you know that your father is not a man to be disobeyed.”
“Quite true,” returned the princess, looking with a solemn expression down at Pedro—for she was still on horseback, while he and his men were dismounted, preparing the camp. “You must on no account disobey my father, Pedro.”
“Well then, you see,” returned the guide, with an amused look, “I cannot give you permission to leave us.”
“Of course not. That would be insubordination, Pedro, would it not? which, in time of war, is punishable, I think, with death. I would never think of asking permission, or tempting you to disobey. I will be sure to tell my father that you positively refused to let me go. Adieu, Senhor Pedro. A good appetite and sweet repose!”
She touched her splendid horse with a switch, and next moment was flying over the Pampas at a pace that rendered pursuit useless.
Dismounting and fastening her steed to a tree, she passed through the garden towards the house, and naturally, as we have seen, came upon Lawrence.
“Manuela!” he exclaimed.
“Si, senhor,” she replied.
He advanced a step with outstretched arms, and then, checking himself, clasped his hands.
“Is it—can it be—a dream?”
“What doos you dream, senhor?” asked the girl, in the old familiar broken English.
“Manuela, dear girl, do not trifle with me. It seems like magic. Did I not see you—in the ballroom—white—the daughter of Colonel Marchbanks?”
“Well, Senhor Armstrong,” said Manuela, earnestly, and in good English, “I admit that I am the daughter of Colonel Marchbanks, but I did not—indeed I did not wish to deceive—”
“Deceive!” interrupted Lawrence, quickly, “as well might you tell me that one of the unfallen angels did not mean to deceive. O dear one, forgive me! I know not how to tell it—but—but—can you believe that a great stupid fellow like myself loves you so that—that—I—well—it’s of no use. I’ll never act wisely if I try to—to—”
He seized her hand. She did not withdraw it. He drew her to him. She did not resist; and there followed a sound—a very slight sound; yet it was not so slight but that it sent a shock of alarm and anger to the soul of Colonel Marchbanks, who came up at that awkward moment.
“Sir! sirrah! senhor,—rascal!” spluttered the old man, as Manuela ran away from the scene, “what—why—what do you mean?”
Drawing himself up, Lawrence said, with a look of dignity—
“Colonel Marchbanks, I can look you honestly in the face, and say that neither in word nor deed have I done you or your daughter wrong.”
“No—have you not?” shouted the colonel. “Sir! rascal!—there is a looking-glass over the mantelpiece in the estancia. Go there, look yourself in the face, and say, if you dare, that you have done me no wrong!”
He wheeled about violently and strode away, fuming.
Lawrence went to his chamber, wondering at such a display of wrath in one so genial.
He glanced at the looking-glass in passing through the chief room of the estancia. The glance revealed to him the fact that there was a large rich brown patch in the region of his mouth and nose!
Not unfrequently, in human affairs, evil consequences are happily averted by unforeseen circumstances. It was so on the present occasion.
What Colonel Marchbanks’s wrath might have led to no one can tell, for, a little before dawn on the following morning, there came a messenger in hot haste from Pedro stating that one of the scouts had come in with the news that the Indians were encamped with their captives and booty not half a day’s ride in advance of them.
The result was an immediate order to advance and to close up.
It is interesting to consider how small a matter will cheer the spirits of some men. The order to mount and ride naturally produced some excitement in the breast of Lawrence Armstrong, being unaccustomed to the dash and whirl of troops eager to meet the foe; but the succeeding order to “close up” did more, it filled his heart with joy, for did it not imply that the advance and rear-guards must come nearer to each other? At least to his unmilitary mind it seemed so.
In a brief space of time, and with marvellously little noise, the troops were in motion, and at dawn, sure enough, he saw the figures of the ladies galloping with the advance party, with Pedro leading the way—for he had been appointed to the responsible duty of guide.
Venturing to push a little ahead of his special charge, Lawrence soon found himself with the main body, and heard the colonel order one of his officers to ride forward and tell the ladies to fall to the rear of the force.
Hearing this, Lawrence, almost imperceptibly to himself, tightened his reins, but, before he had dropped many strides behind, the colonel turned his head slightly and summoned him by name.
With something like a guilty feeling Lawrence rode forward.
“We have heard of the whereabouts of the savages, Senhor Armstrong. You are a civilian, and as surgeon to the force it is your duty, of course, to keep as much out of danger as possible, but as brave men usually prefer the front, I absolve you from this duty. You are at liberty to go there if you choose.”
The blood rushed to our hero’s face. He knew well what the old soldier meant. With a simple “Thank you, colonel,” he put spurs to his steed, and was in a few seconds galloping alongside of Pedro.
“You ride furiously, senhor,” said the guide, with a twinkle in his eye which was characteristic of him when amused.
Lawrence made no reply.
Just then they overtopped a slight ridge or rising ground, and beheld a few mounted men on the horizon. These were evidently the scouts of the Indian band, for on seeing the soldiers they drew hastily together and stood in a group as if to consult for a few seconds. Then, turning, they galloped over the next rising ground and disappeared.
The soldiers of course increased their speed. On gaining the top of the ridge, they beheld a large band of Indians mounting and galloping off in hot haste. Evidently they did not intend to give battle—at least at that time.
With a mighty shout the soldiers bore down on them at their utmost speed—Lawrence, Pedro, the colonel, and Quashy leading, for they were the best mounted of the party. It was soon perceived that captives were with the Indians, for women in civilised dress were seen on horseback, and some of the savages had children in front of them.
At this sight every thought of self fled from the warm heart of Lawrence Armstrong, and he was impressed with but one idea—“Rescue the helpless!” Urging his steed to its utmost, he was soon far ahead of the troop, closely followed by Quashy, whose eyes and teeth seemed to blaze with excitement.
There was a savage straight ahead of them who carried something in his arms. It seemed to be a child. Fixing his eye on this man, Lawrence spurred on, and grasped his sword with deadly intent. Quashy, ever observant, did the same.
The man, perceiving their intentions, diverged a little to the right of his comrades, probably thinking that his pursuers would be unwilling to quit the main band, and might thus be thrown off. He was mistaken, for Lawrence possessed, with immense power of will, a strong spice of recklessness. The more, therefore, that the savage diverged, the more did his pursuers diverge in their determination to have him. Finding himself hard pressed, he dropped his load. It proved to be only a sack, which, bursting, revealed, not a child, but a quantity of miscellaneous property!
Enraged as well as disappointed by the discovery, our hero, being fallible, permitted evil feelings to enter his bosom, and spurred on with a tighter grasp of the sword under the influence of revenge, but the savage being now lightened held on with still greater speed, diverging more and more until, in a short time, he raced almost at right angles from his companions towards a part of the plain which was somewhat elevated above the surrounding level.
It was a wise move on his part, for the place, he knew, was riddled with biscacho-holes. Among these he steered his course with consummate skill. Of course Lawrence’s steed ere long put its foot into a hole and rolled over, sending its rider headlong to the ground, where he lay on his back insensible, alike to pity for captives and impulses of revenge.
After lying thus for a considerable time he slowly opened his eyes, and, looking up, met the solemn gaze of Quashy. His head rested on the knee of his sable follower.
“What’s wrong, Quash?” was his first inquiry.
“Nuffin’s wrong, massa, now you talk. I was begin to t’ink your mout’ was shut up for ebber.”
“Have they caught the rascals?” asked Lawrence, suddenly recollecting what had passed, and raising himself on one elbow.
“I not know, massa. Nobody here to tell.”
“How—what—where are the troops?”
“Dun know, massa; gone arter de Injins, I s’pose, an’ de Injins gone arter deir own business, an’ bof gone off de face ob de art’ altogidder—so far as I can see.”
Lawrence started up in great anxiety, and although still giddy
Comments (0)