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 Black Tor: A Tale of the Reign of James the First by George Manville Fenn (best romance books of all time .txt) 📖
- Author: George Manville Fenn
Book online «The Black Tor: A Tale of the Reign of James the First by George Manville Fenn (best romance books of all time .txt) 📖». Author George Manville Fenn
Then another day was passed, and still all was quiet; but toward the middle of the next those on guard in the chamber heard, and reported to Mark, that they could hear the distant sound of stones rolling down, and Mark went and listened so as to determine whether his father ought to be roused, for after a very long watch he had lain down upon a blanket to sleep.
“I wouldn’t call un, Master Mark,” said Dan. “He’s tired enough. Watches twice to our once. Let the hounds come; we could account for ’em if they tried to pull our wall down.”
“Well, it would be plenty of time to awaken my father if they came and tried,” said Mark. “Look here, then, we’ll wait; and let it be in perfect silence, so that we may hear if they come as far as the other side of the wall.”
The men were as obedient to his orders as to those of Sir Edward, and they all sat or lay about, with their weapons close to their hands, listening in the darkness, the calm and silence being good for thought; and before long Mark’s brain was at work thinking about the state of affairs at the castle, to which he had been three times since the siege began, to see his sister and learn how Ralph Darley was progressing.
The news was always bad, Master Rayburn shaking his head and looking very serious.
“Bad hurts, Mark, boy,” he said, “bad hurts. I hope, please God, he may be spared; but I have my fears.”
“Master Rayburn!” cried Mark wildly. “Oh! you must not—you shall not let the brave fellow die.”
“I’d give my poor old life to save his,” said the old man sadly. “We can only wait and hope.”
And as Mark sat in the dark natural chamber formed in the old limestone hill, he recalled Ralph’s white, fire-scarred face, looking pale and unnaturally drawn, and wondered that he should feel so low-spirited about one who was an enemy and almost a stranger, till his musings were interrupted by a dull sound on the other side of the wall—a sound which came after the long period of utter silence which had succeeded to the noise made by forcing out and rolling down stones.
No one else heard the faint sound, and setting it down to fancy, Mark was thinking again about the prisoners within, and wondering what treatment they were receiving from the enemy.
It seemed hard enough for Sir Morton Darley, but Mark could not help feeling how terrible it must be for a delicately sensitive girl.
Then once more he heard that sound, which he felt sure could only be caused by a foot kicking against a stone.
Just then there was a faint rustling, a hand was laid upon his arm, and Dummy whispered:
“Hear that, Master Mark?”
“Yes. Don’t talk,” whispered Mark, and the two lads, who were well upon the alert, listened in perfect silence, till all at once there was a faint gleam of light, so feeble that it could hardly be distinguished, but there it was, close to the roof, and Mark was satisfied that it must come over the top of their defensive wall.
Then all was still for a minute or two, till the two mentally saw what was taking place—some one was passing his hands over the built-up stones, and trying whether one of them could be dislodged.
Then all was still again, and the light died out.
It was not till hours after that any further sound was heard, and this time Sir Edward was awake and about, passing from the dark chamber where the sentries were on guard to the light outside, and back again.
Mark went with him, and Sir Edward had just happened to say in a whisper:
“All quiet enough now,” when a voice, apparently close to his elbow, said hoarsely:
“No. I’m not going to walk into a trap.”
There was a good deal in those few words, for to Mark, among other things, they meant that if the speaker was not going to walk into a trap, it was because he must have food enough to last him for some time longer, and was not willing to lay down his arms.
The blockade was strictly kept up at the mouth of the cavern, Sir Edward having cast aside, at all events for the time being, every feeling of enmity; and in spite of the many disappointments, he grew day by day more determined to rout out the gang, and rescue their prisoners. “Only tell me what to do, Mark, my boy, and if it is possible, it shall be done. If we go on blasting the place we shall end by shutting them in beyond recovery,” said Sir Edward, “a good enough thing to do as far as the ruffians are concerned, but we shall destroy Sir Morton Darley and his child.”
“I can’t think of anything, father,” said Mark, gloomily. “I suppose we can only wait.”
“That is the conclusion I always come to, my boy. All we can do is to be perfectly ready for the moment when, utterly desperate, they will surrender or break out.”
“I hope they’ll fight, father,” said Mark grimly. “Why?”
“Because it would be so horrible for them to surrender. I’d rather see them die fighting.”
“Yes,” said Sir Edward, frowning heavily. “Hanging prisoners was all very well a hundred years ago. We don’t want to do that sort of thing nowadays. There, run over to the Tor, and see how things are going. You need not hurry back. Tell Mary I shall come myself to-morrow, and that I’m getting very tired of sleeping in a cavern.”
“But suppose the men try to break out while I’m gone, father.”
“Well, if they do, I shall have all the honour of the fight.”
“But I shall not like that,” said Mark.
“I might say the same to you to-morrow, my boy,” said Sir Edward, smiling. “Go and see how young Darley is; we cannot give up everything to this business.”
Mark started for home, leaving his father with a strong enough guard to master the men if they attempted to escape; and before he had gone fifty yards, Dummy came trotting after his young master like a dog.
“Hullo! what is it, Dummy?” cried Mark, stopping short.
“Only coming home with you, Master Mark. Saw you, and father said he didn’t want me.”
“Oh, very well. Getting tired of it?”
“Ever so, Master Mark. I liked it when we were firing the powder, or having a bit of a fight, but it’s so stupid to be doing nothing but sit down and watch a wall, like dogs after rabbits that won’t ever come.”
“Yes,” said Mark, with a sigh, “it is weary work.”
“Father says he don’t believe they’ll ever come.”
“But they must, when they’ve finished their food.”
“He says they’ve got such lots. They’ve been at work, he says, for twenty miles round, as he knows, and they’ve stored up sacks of meal and corn, and sides of bacon, and hams, and pickle-tubs of pork. There aren’t no end to the stuff they’ve got, and then they’ve plenty of good water, both warm and cold.”
“Oh, don’t talk about it,” cried Mark; “it makes me feel as bad as can be.”
Dummy settled down into the mood which originated his name during the rest of the way, and the lads parted as they reached the Tor, Dummy to go down the steps to the mine to see how everything looked, and report to his father upon his return, and Mark to hurry up to his room, where Ralph Darley lay insensible still, and where he had a very warm reception from his sister and Master Rayburn.
“Then you have taken the place at last, Mark,” cried Mary.
“No,” said the lad, frowning, “and we’re not likely to take it. I say, Master Rayburn, isn’t he a long time getting better?”
“Yes,” said the old man gravely, “and perhaps after all it is a mercy that he remains insensible. Poor fellow! it would be horrible for him, in his weak state, to lie fretting because he could not go to the help of his father and sister.”
Mark conveyed his message about Sir Edward’s intentions for the following day, and he was bending down over the sufferer’s pillow, thinking how very much he was changed, when there was a tap at the door, and an announcement that Dummy Rugg must see Master Mark directly.
“I must go, Mary,” said Mark excitedly. “Some one has come over after us.”
“Oh Mark!” cried the girl, looking startled, and clinging to him.
“Don’t do that,” cried the lad. “Be brave; I’ll take all the care I can.”
“Yes,” said Master Rayburn to him, with a sad smile, “you will take all the care you can. I know what you are, Mark, but do try, boy, not to be rash.”
Mark promised, and hurried down and out into the courtyard; but there was no Dummy visible till he had passed the second, and found him seated on a block of stone, whistling, and swinging his legs to and fro.
“What is it? some one come to fetch us?” cried Mark excitedly.
“No: nobody aren’t come,” said the boy, looking at him fixedly.
“Then why did you send for me?” cried Mark angrily.
“’Cause I wanted you, Master Mark, very bad indeed.”
“Here, what do you mean? What’s the matter with you?”
“Got the thinks, very bad.”
“Dummy!”
“Yes, Master Mark, I was took with ’em as soon as I got as far as the powder store. It all come at once.”
“What do you mean?”
Dummy was perfectly silent, but not perfectly still; for as he stared straight in Mark’s face in a peculiarly stolid way, he kept on swinging and jerking his legs till he seemed as if some one was pulling a string to make him act like a jumping toy.
“Look here, stupid-head,” cried Mark angrily, but only to break into a laugh, half of amusement, half of vexatious contempt, “are you going mad?”
“I dunno, Master Mark. Perhaps I am. There’s something keeps on buzzing in my head like a wheel going round.”
“You’ve been out too much in the sun.”
“No, I aren’t. I’ve been down the mine in the dark.”
“And got frightened?”
“Not as I knows on, Master Mark. It’s the thinks.”
“Here, what do you mean, thick-head? I can’t stop here listening to your nonsense.”
“’Taren’t nonsense, Master Mark,” said the boy, giving him a peculiar stare.
“What is it, then?”
“I want to know where that water goes to yonder in the mine.”
“What! do you mean to say you’ve had me fetched out to tell me that?”
Dummy nodded, and Mark doubled his fist.
“I’ve got it, Master Mark.”
“Got what, you idiot?”
“We’re up ever so much higher here than they are at Ergles, yonder, aren’t we?”
“Higher? Of course,” said Mark, looking at the lad curiously; “but what of that?”
“That’s what I wanted you to tell me, Master Mark, and that’s it then.”
“What’s what then?”
“Why, that water in the mine where we went along, and was under us when we went to sleep—that goes along under ground, right under the moorland, and it comes out again in Ergles Dale.”
“Do you think it goes in that direction?”
Dummy nodded.
“Well, but suppose it does, what then?”
“I’m sure it does now, Master Mark, and what the thinks have made me see’s this: if you and me had kept going on instead of sitting down, and eating and drinking till we went fas’ asleep, we should have found ourselves in Ergles Hole, and if it hadn’t been for the Purlrose gang, we might have worked back ’bove ground.”
“Why, Dummy! I don’t know—yes, if it’s that way—goes for miles. I say, perhaps you’re right.”
“Yes, I’m right,” said the boy quietly; “but you don’t jump about a bit: you aren’t glad.”
“Glad? Jump about? Why should I? Oh!”
“Haw—haw—haw!” laughed Dummy. “He can see it now. Why, it come to me, Master Mark, like a flash of lightning.”
“Oh, Dummy, I’ll never call you a thick-head again,” cried Mark excitedly.
“Why not?
Comments (0)