The Path of the King E-Book

John Buchan

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Beschreibung

We wonder that so great a man as Abraham Lincoln should spring from humble people – but who knows what his more distant ancestry might have been? In a series of dramatic chapters, Mr. Buchan tells what he imagines to have been the ancestry of Lincoln. „The Path Of The King” is a series of short vignettes, loosely connected, starting in Scotland before the Normans arrived and involving the people who where in conflict with their Scandinavian cousins. It ends in America with the aftermath of the assassination of Abraham Lincoln. In the journey from the start to the end we visit various historical events and figures, such as France and Joan of Arc. This collection of fourteen short stories shows John Buchan’s talent for heroic adventures. „Hightown under Sunfell” is set in the time of the Vikings, whilst „The End of the Road” surrounds the period of Abraham Lincoln. Other tales cover periods in between. If you ever read one book by John Buchan this should be it, a true masterpiece of historical fiction.

Leseprobe

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1. Hightown Under Sunfell

Chapter 2. The Englishman

Chapter 3. The Wife Of Flanders

Chapter 4. Eyes Of Youth

Chapter 5. The Maid

Chapter 6. The Wood Of Life

Chapter 7. Eaucourt By The Waters

Chapter 8. The Hidden City

Chapter 9. The Regicide

Chapter 10. The Marplot

Chapter 11. The Lit Chamber

Chapter 12. In The Dark Land

Chapter 13. The Last Stage

Chapter 14. The End Of The Road

Epilogue

PROLOGUE

The three of us in that winter camp in the Selkirks were talking the slow aimless talk of wearied men.

The Soldier, who had seen many campaigns, was riding his hobby of the Civil War and descanting on Lee’s tactics in the last Wilderness struggle. I said something about the stark romance of it–of Jeb Stuart flitting like a wraith through the forests; of Sheridan’s attack at Chattanooga, when the charging troops on the ridge were silhouetted against a harvest moon; of Leonidas Polk, last of the warrior Bishops, baptising his fellow generals by the light of a mess candle. “Romance,” I said, “attended the sombre grey and blue levies as faithfully as she ever rode with knight-errant or crusader.”

The Scholar, who was cutting a raw-hide thong, raised his wise eyes.

“Does it never occur to you fellows that we are all pretty mixed in our notions? We look for romance in the well-cultivated garden-plots, and when it springs out of virgin soil we are surprised, though any fool might know it was the natural place for it.”

He picked up a burning stick to relight his pipe.

“The things we call aristocracies and reigning houses are the last places to look for masterful men. They began strongly, but they have been too long in possession. They have been cosseted and comforted and the devil has gone out of their blood. Don’t imagine that I undervalue descent. It is not for nothing that a great man leaves posterity. But who is more likely to inherit the fire–the elder son with his flesh-pots or the younger son with his fortune to find? Just think of it! All the younger sons of younger sons back through the generations! We none of us know our ancestors beyond a little way. We all of us may have kings’ blood in our veins. The dago who blacked my boots at Vancouver may be descended by curious byways from Julius Caesar.

“Think of it!” he cried. “The spark once transmitted may smoulder for generations under ashes, but the appointed time will come, and it will flare up to warm the world. God never allows waste. And we fools rub our eyes and wonder, when we see genius come out of the gutter. It didn’t begin there. We tell ourselves that Shakespeare was the son of a wool pedlar, and Napoleon of a farmer, and Luther of a peasant, and we hold up our hands at the marvel. But who knows what kings and prophets they had in their ancestry!”

After that we turned in, and as I lay looking at the frosty stars a fancy wove itself in my brain. I saw the younger sons carry the royal blood far down among the people, down even into the kennels of the outcast. Generations follow, oblivious of the high beginnings, but there is that in the stock which is fated to endure. The sons and daughters blunder and sin and perish, but the race goes on, for there is a fierce stuff of life in it. It sinks and rises again and blossoms at haphazard into virtue or vice, since the ordinary moral laws do not concern its mission. Some rags of greatness always cling to it, the dumb faith that sometime and somehow that blood drawn from kings it never knew will be royal again. Though nature is wasteful of material things, there is no waste of spirit And then after long years there comes, unheralded and unlooked-for, the day of the Appointed Time…

This is the story which grew out of that talk by the winter fire.