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. Two Penniless Princesses by Charlotte M. Yonge (the two towers ebook TXT) 📖
- Author: Charlotte M. Yonge
Book online «Two Penniless Princesses by Charlotte M. Yonge (the two towers ebook TXT) 📖». Author Charlotte M. Yonge
‘If it is the Duke, he will free you, Elleen,’ said Jean weeping; ‘he will not care for me!’
‘Jeanie, Jeanie, could you think I would be set free without you?’
‘You might not be able to help yourself. ‘Tis you that the German wants.’
‘Never shall he have me if he be such a recreant, mansworn fellow as to leave my sister to the reiver. Never!’
‘Ah! if poor Geordie were there, he would have moved heaven and earth to save me; but there is none to heed me now,’ and Jean fell into a passion of weeping.
When they had to go down to supper, the younger Baron received them with the news—‘So, ladies, the Duke has been shouting his threats at us, but this castle is too hard a nut for the like of him.’
‘I have seen others crack their teeth against it,’ said his father; and they both laughed, a hoarse derisive laugh.
The ladies vouchsafed not a word till they were allowed to retire to their chamber.
They listened in the morning for the sounds of an assault, but none came; there was absolutely nothing but an occasional hum of voices and clank of armour. When summoned to the mid-day meal, it was scanty.
‘Ay,’ said the elder Baron, we shall have to live hard for a day or two, but those outside will live harder.’
‘Till they fall out and cut one another’s throats,’ said his son. ‘Fasting will not mend the temper of Hans of Schlingen and Michel au Bec rouge.’
‘Or till Banget descends on him for meddling on Lorraine ground,’ added old Balchenburg. ‘Eat, lady,’ he added to Jean; ‘your meals are not so large that they will make much odds to our stores. We have corn and beer enough to starve out those greedy knaves outside!’
Poor Jean was nearly out of her senses with distress and uncertainty, and being still weak, was less able to endure. She burst into violent hysterical weeping, and had to be helped up to her own room, where she sometimes lay on her bed; sometimes raged up and down the room, heaping violent words on the head of the tardy cowardly German; sometimes talking of loosing Skywing to show they were in the castle and cognisant of what was going on; but it was not certain that Skywing, with the lion rampant on his hood, would fly down to the besiegers, so that she would only be lost.
Eleanor, by the very need of soothing her sister, was enabled to be more tranquil. Besides, there was pleasure in the knowledge that Sigismund had come after her, and there was imagination enough in her nature to trust to the true knight daring any amount of dragons in his lady’s cause. And the lady always had to be patient.
CHAPTER 11. FETTERS BROKEN Then long and loud the victor shout From turret and from tower rang out; The rugged walls replied. SCOTT, Lord of the Isles.
‘Sir, I have something to show you.’
It was the early twilight of a summer’s morning when Ringan crept up to the shelter of pine branches under which George Douglas was sleeping, after hotly opposing Gebhardt, who had nearly persuaded his master that retreat was inevitable, unless he meant to be deserted by more than half his men.
George sat up. ‘Anent the ladies?’ he said.
Ringan bowed his head, with an air of mystery and George doubted no longer, but let him lead the way, keeping among the brushwood to the foot of the quarry whence the castle had been built. It had once been absolutely precipitous, no doubt, but the stone was of a soft quality, on which weather told: ivy and creepers had grown on it, and Ringan pointed to what to dwellers on plains might have seemed impracticable, but to those who had bird’s-nested on the crags of Tantallon had quite a different appearance. True, there was castle wall and turret above, but on this, the weather side, there had likewise been a slight crumbling, which had been neglected, perhaps from over security, perhaps on account of the extreme difficulty of repairing, where there was the merest ledge for foothold above the precipitous quarry; indeed, the condition of the place might never even have been perceived by the inhabitants, as there were no traces of the place below having been frequented.
‘Tis a mere staircase as far as the foot of the walls compared with the Guillemot’s crag,’ observed Ringan.
‘And a man with a heart and a foot could be up the wall in the corner where the ivy grows,’ added George. ‘It is well, Ringan, thou hast done good service. Here is the way.’
‘With four or five of our own tall carles, we may win the castle, and laugh at the German pock-puddings,’ added Ringan. ‘Let them gang their gate, and we’ll free our leddies.’
George was tempted, but he shook his head. ‘That were scarce knightly towards the Duke,’ he said. ‘He has been gude friend to me, and I may not thus steal a march on him. Moreover, we ken na the strength of the loons within.’
‘I misdoot there being mair than ten of them,’ said Ringan. ‘I have seen the same faces too often for there to be many. And what there be we shall take napping.’
That was true; nevertheless George Douglas felt bound in honour not to undertake the enterprise without the cognisance of his ally, though he much doubted the Germans being alert or courageous enough to take advantage of such a perilous clamber.
Sigismund had a tent under the pine-trees, and a guard before the entrance, who stood, halbert in hand, like a growling statue, when the young Scot would have entered, understanding not one word of his objurgations in mixed Scotch and French, but only barring the way, till Sigismund’s own ‘Wer da?’ sounded from within.
‘Moi—George of Angus!’ shouted that individual in his awkward French. ‘Let me in, Sir Duke; I have tidings!’
Sigismund was on foot in a moment. ‘And from King Eene?’ he asked.
‘Far better, strong heart and steady foot can achieve the adventure and save the ladies unaided! Come with me, beau sire! Silently.’
George had fully expected to see the German quail at the frightful precipice and sheer wall before him, but the Hapsburg was primarily a Tirolean mountaineer, and he measured the rock with a glistening triumphant eye.
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