The Dark Mile. D. K. Broster
Читать онлайн.| Название | The Dark Mile |
|---|---|
| Автор произведения | D. K. Broster |
| Жанр | Языкознание |
| Серия | |
| Издательство | Языкознание |
| Год выпуска | 0 |
| isbn | 4064066387365 |
D. K. Broster
The Dark Mile
Historical Romance Novel
e-artnow, 2021
Contact: [email protected]
EAN: 4064066387365
Table of Contents
Chapter II. On His Very Hearthstone
Chapter IV. The Lady from the Loch
Chapter V. Would She Were Gone!
Chapter VI. The Field of Daisies
Chapter VII. An Explanation at the Goats’ Whey
Chapter IX. Other People’s Love Affairs
Chapter XI. Ian Stewart Listens to the Devil
Chapter XII. “Out, Sword, and to a Sore Purpose!”
Chapter XIII. Castle Dangerous
Chapter XIV. “Will You Walk Into My Parlour?”
Chapter XVI. Another in the Toils
Chapter XVIII. Ian Does Some Hard Things
Chapter XIX. Finlay’s Tool . . . ?
Chapter XX. In a Green Riding Habit
Chapter XXII. The Counter Thrust
Chapter XXIII. The Stream in Spate
Chapter XXIV. “Ask Mr. Maitland . . .”
Chapter XXV. “He Forgave . . .”
Chapter XXVI. A Life for a Life
Chapter XXVII. Light in the Dark Mile
Chapter XXVIII. The King of Lochlann’s Daughter
PROLOGUE
THE THIRTEENTH CHIEF
§ 1
Its own peculiarly vehement and gusty wind was curvetting about Edinburgh this October afternoon of 1754, forerunner and abettor of the brief but wholehearted squalls of rain which now and then were let loose upon the defenceless city, and sent every pedestrian running to the nearest doorway. Yet between these cloudbursts it was fine enough, and during one of these sunny intervals a young man in black, holding on to his hat, walked quickly up the slope of the Canongate. His long stride accorded well with his fine height and build, and though his mourning was new and very deep, there was no trace of recent bereavement in his air. Indeed—despite the difficulty with his hat—he held his head with a sort of natural arrogance, and his glance at his surroundings in general was something that of a newly-crowned monarch surveying his territory and subjects. For only six weeks had elapsed since the earth had been shovelled down upon his old father’s coffin in the roofless chapel of Holyrood, and the son who bore him no particular affection was come at twenty-nine into his inheritance as thirteenth Chief of Glenshian . . . into possession of a ruined castle, an empty treasury, and immense prestige in the Western Highlands. But he already possessed some very singular assets of his own.
Just where the High Street, having succeeded the Canongate, gave way in its turn to the Lawnmarket, this Highland gentleman came to an abrupt and apparently unpremeditated halt in front of a small shop-window. It was rather a dingy window with bulging panes, evidently, from its contents, the property of a vendor of almanacs and broad-sheets; but the new Chief’s attention was pretty plainly engaged by a roughly-executed wood engraving which was propped, unframed, against a pile of books in the very centre of the window. There was nothing about this to distinguish it from any other equally bad print of the time; one could only say that it was a stock representation of a man of early middle age. But the inscription ran, “A True Effigies of Doctor Archibald Cameron, who lately suffered Death at Tyburn for High Treason.”
At this “effigies” the young man in black stood looking with a frown, and a deepening frown. Regret, no doubt, was heavy upon him (since he too was a partisan of the White Rose) and a natural if vain desire for vengeance upon the English Government which, only a year and four months before, had sent his fellow-Jacobite and compatriot to the scaffold.
It would have required a more than human insight to discover what was really causing that scowl; more insight, certainly, than was possessed by the middle-aged, down-at-heels and partially drunken Edinburgh chairman who was lounging at the entrance of the close by the shop, and looking at the tall, stationary figure with a gaze half sodden and half cunning. Once, indeed, he detached himself from the dark and greasy wall of the entry as though to accost it; then, muttering something inaudible, relapsed once more against his support.
Yet, for all that, he was to speak to the gentleman in black; the Fates would have it so, desiring no doubt to show that they at least could read the mind of Finlay MacPhair of Glenshian. Nevertheless it would not have come about but for this day’s inclement weather. For while the young Chief, his