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- Herausgeber: Enrico Conti
- Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017
Lady Florence Caroline Dixie (née Douglas; 25 May 1855 – 7 November 1905), was a Scottish traveller, war correspondent, writer and feminist. Her account of travelling Across Patagonia, her children's books The Young Castaways and Aniwee, or, The Warrior Queen, and her feminist utopia Gloriana, or the Revolution of 1900 all deal with feminist themes related to girls, women, and their positions in society.
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Redeemed in Blood
by
Florence Dixie
To the best of our knowledge, the text of this
work is in the “Public Domain”.
HOWEVER, copyright law varies in other countries, and the work may still be under
copyright in the country from which you are accessing this website. It is your
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Chapter 1
Chapter 2.
Chapter 3.
Chapter 4.
Chapter 5.
Chapter 6.
Chapter 7.
Chapter 8.
Chapter 9.
Chapter 10.
Chapter 11
Chapter 12.
Chapter 13.
Chapter 14.
Chapter 15.
Chapter 16.
Chapter 17.
Chapter 18.
Chapter 19.
Chapter 20.
Chapter 21.
Chapter 22.
Chapter 23.
Chapter 24.
Chapter 25.
Chapter 26.
Chapter 27.
Chapter 28.
Chapter 29.
Chapter 30.
TO
FRANCIS DOUGLAS,
THE BROTHER OF MY CHILDHOOD’S DREAMS,
I dedicate this, my first novel,
In memory of the bright and promising young life that was cut off at the early age of seventeen years. Killed on the hitherto unconquered Matterhorn
Friday, the 14th of July, 1865.
Where ether gilds the Alpine steeps
Beyond the verge whence mortals stray,
Calm on yon berg young Douglas sleeps,
Whence none may bear his corse away.
For monarch none had tomb so grand,
However potent was his sway,
No conq’ror led a nobler band
Than perished on that fatal day.
There stars will ever shed their light,
The sun will gild each rising morn.
His winding sheet — the glacier bright !
His monument — The Matterhorn !
Chapter 1
A BRIGHT blue sky, a gleaming, sultry day, with the mirage trembling above the purple moors and hills of a glorious Scottish scene. A winding river glinting in the sunshine, making its way in foaming eagerness over dark boulders of rugged rocks and stones, beautiful in its ever-changing form. In marked contrast to the rough and turbulent waters are the quiet pools into which the salmon glide, when weary of the strife outside those peaceful shelters. Here and there wooded heights, sloping downwards to the river’s edge, hang their luxuriant foliage over its dark cool waters, reflecting their emerald beauty in the glassy pools.
A scene of extreme beauty, yet withal a very lonely one ! So thought Oswald St. Maur as, sketch-book in hand, he settled himself in the shade of an over-hanging rock, and made preparations for committing it to paper. He was a young man struggling towards fame, an artist who depended on his pencil and brush for a livelihood, and at the time our story opens, engaged on a walking and sketching tour through the western highlands of Scotland.
He thought the scene a lonely one, bereft, as it apparently was, of any living form ; but he had not sketched long, when he became aware that he was not the only human being intruding on these solitudes. A shrill whistle, followed by a clear, ringing shout, made him look up, when he perceived a small party advancing across a heathery flat, that stretched away towards the moors beyond, on the opposite side of the river. The party consisted of a boy and girl, both carrying guns, two keepers, and a lad who, with a small luncheon basket slung across his shoulders, was with difficulty restraining two eager young Irish setters that he held coupled together. Two other setters were ranging to and fro, while a handsome black retriever followed close at one of the keeper's heels. At the sound of the whistle and accompanying shout, the ranging animals closed in on the little party, and came to heel behind the other keeper. Reaching the river's edge, the party came to a halt, and Oswald St. Maur lay down his pencil and sketch-book to watch them. The lad with the luncheon basket had unslung it, and, while one of the keepers unpacked the contents, the other, and apparently head one, laid out the game which two well-filled game bags contained, and which the girl and boy eagerly counted.
“Hurrah! we’ve made the twenty-five brace exactly; just what we said we would, Angus,” cried the boy, as he tossed his glengarry up in the air with delight.
”Yes; and without losing a single bird, thanks to your good nose, Dhu dear,” added the girl, as she patted and kissed on the nose the black retriever that stood gravely by her side, gently moving his tail to and fro.
“Your lordship and leddyship just shot weel the day,” said the keeper, as he knelt beside the birds and smoothed out their ruffled plumage, adding, “Ye just couldna ha’ shot better, an the burds so strong and wild too, my leddy.”
“Yes, they were wild for the twelfth, Angus,” replied the girl; “strange on such a lovely day, too. But come, Ronald, let us to lunch. I see Donald has got it all ready, and I’m dreadfully hungry. I wonder what Mrs. Stewart has sent us out.”
“You greedy girl,” laughed Ronald, as he turned towards the grassy bank on which Donald had spread out the luncheon. “Who was it told me that Mr. Disraeli said ‘he couldn’t abide a woman who was fond of eating’?”
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
