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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 » Two Penniless Princesses by Charlotte M. Yonge (the two towers ebook TXT) 📖

Book online «Two Penniless Princesses by Charlotte M. Yonge (the two towers ebook TXT) 📖». Author Charlotte M. Yonge



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be fully reassured.

There was a strange stillness over Chateau le Surry when David rode in triumphantly at the gate. A Scottish archer, who stood on guard, looked up at him anxiously with the words, ‘Is it weel with the lassies?’ and on his reply, ‘They are sain and safe, thanks, under Heaven, to Geordie Douglas of Angus!’ the man exclaimed, ‘On, on, sir squire, the saints grant ye may not be too late for the puir Dolfine! Ah! but she has been sair misguided.’

‘Is my mother here?’ asked David.

‘Ay, sir, and with the puir lady. Ye may gang in without question. A’ the doors be open, that ilka loon may win in to see a princess die.’

The pursuivant, hearing that the King and Dauphin were no longer in the castle, rode on to Chalons, but David dismounted, and followed a stream of persons, chiefly monks, friars, and women of the burgher class, up the steps, and on into the vaulted room, the lower part shut off by a rail, against which crowded the curious and only half-awed multitude, who whispered to each other, while above, at a temporary altar, bright with rows of candles, priests intoned prayers. The atmosphere was insufferably hot, and David could hardly push forward; but as he exclaimed in his imperfect French that he came with tidings of Madame’s sisters, way was made, and he heard his mother’s voice. ‘Is it? Is it my son? Bring him. Oh, quickly!’

He heard a little, faint, gasping cry, and as a lane was opened for him, struggled onwards. In poor Margaret’s case the etiquette that banished the nearest kin from Royalty in articulo mortis was not much to be regretted. David saw her—white, save for the death-flush called up by the labouring breath, as she lay upheld in his mother’s arms, a priest holding a crucifix before her, a few ladies kneeling by the bed.

‘Good tidings, I see, my son,’ said Lady Drummond.

‘Are—they—here?’ gasped Margaret.

‘Alack, not yet, Madame; they will come in a few days’ time.’ She gave a piteous sigh, and David could not hear her words.

‘Tell her how and where you found them,’ said his mother.

David told his story briefly. There was little but a quivering of the heavy eyelids and a clasping of the hands to show whether the dying woman marked him, but when he had finished, she said, so low that only his mother heard, ‘Safe! Thank God! Nunc dimittis. Who was it—young Angus?’

‘Even so,’ said David, when the question had been repeated to him by his mother.

‘So best!’ sighed Margaret. ‘Bid the good father give thanks.’

Dame Lilias dismissed her son with a sign. Margaret lay far more serene. For a few minutes there was a sort of hope that the good news might inspire fresh life, and yet, after the revelation of what her condition was in this strange, frivolous, hard-hearted Court, how could life be desired for her weary spirit? She did not seem to wish—far less to struggle to wish—to live to see them again; perhaps there was an instinctive feeling that, in her weariness, there was no power of rousing herself, and she would rather sink undisturbed than hear of the terror and suffering that she knew but too well her husband had caused.

Only, when it was very near the last, she said, ‘Safe! safe in leal hands. Oh, tell my Jeanie to be content with them—never seek earthly crowns—ashes—ashes—Elleen—Jeanie—all of them—my love-oh! safe, safe. Now, indeed, I can pardon—’

‘Pardon!’ said the French priest, catching the word. ‘Whom, Madame, the Sieur de Tillay?’

Even on the gasping lips there was a semi-smile. ‘Tillay—I had forgotten! Tillay, yes, and another.’

If no one else understood, Lady Drummond did, that the forgiveness was for him who had caused the waste and blight of a life that might have been so noble and so sweet, and who had treacherously prepared a terrible fate for her young innocent sisters.

It was all ended now; there was no more but to hear the priest commend the parting Christian soul, while, with a few more faint breaths, the soul of Margaret of Scotland passed beyond the world of sneers, treachery, and calumny, to the land ‘where the wicked cease from troubling, and where the weary are at rest.’





CHAPTER 12. SORROW ENDED ‘Done to death by slanderous tongues Was the Hero that here lies: Death, avenger of wrongs, Gives her fame which never dies.’ Much Ado About Nothing.

A day’s rest revived Jean enough to make her eager to push on to Chalons, and enough likewise to revive her coquettish and petulant temper.

Sigismund and Eleanor might ride on together in a species of paradise, as having not only won each other’s love, but acted out a bit of the romance that did not come to full realisation much more often in those days than in modern ones. They were quite content to let King Rene glory in them almost as much as he had arrived at doing in his own daughter and her Ferry, and they could be fully secure; Sigismund had no one’s consent to ask, save a formal licence from his cousin, the Emperor Frederick III., who would pronounce him a fool for wedding a penniless princess, but had no real power over him; while Eleanor was certain that all her kindred would feel that she was fulfilling her destiny, and high sweet thoughts of thankfulness and longing to be a blessing to him who loved her, and to those whom he ruled, filled her spirit as she rode through the shady woods and breezy glades, bright with early summer.

Jean, however, was galled by the thought that every one at home would smile and say that she might have spared her journey, and that, in spite of all her beauty, she had just ended by wedding the Scottish laddie whom she had scorned. True, her heart knew that she loved him and none other, and that he truly merited her; but her pride was not willing that he should feel that he had earned her as a matter of course, and she was quite as ungracious to Sir George Douglas, the Master of Angus, as ever she had been to Geordie of the Red Peel, and she showed all the petulance of a semi-convalescent. She would not let him ride beside her, his horse made her palfrey restless, she said; and when King Rene talked about her true knight, she pretended not to understand.

‘Ah!’ he said, ‘be consoled, brave sire; we all know it is the part of the fair lady to be cruel and merciless. Let me sing you a roman both sad and true!’

Which good-natured speech simply irritated George beyond bearing. ‘The daft old carle,’ muttered he to Sir Patrick, ‘why cannot he let me gang my ain gate, instead of bringing all their prying eyes on me? If Jean casts me off the noo, it will be all his fault.’

These small vexations, however, soon faded

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