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第51节

lay morals-第51节

小说: lay morals 字数: 每页4000字

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His rhetoric was set forth with an ear…piercing elocution;  and a voice that sometimes crashed like cannon。  Such as it  was; it was the gift of all hill…preachers; to a singular  degree of likeness or identity。  Their images scarce ranged  beyond the red horizon of the moor and the rainy hill…top;  the shepherd and his sheep; a fowling…piece; a spade; a pipe;  a dunghill; a crowing cock; the shining and the withdrawal of  the sun。  An occasional pathos of simple humanity; and  frequent patches of big Biblical words; relieved the homely  tissue。  It was a poetry apart; bleak; austere; but genuine;  and redolent of the soil。

A little before the coming of the squall there was a  different scene enacting at the outposts。  For the most part;  the sentinels were faithful to their important duty; the  Hill…end of Drumlowe was known to be a safe meeting…place;  and the out…pickets on this particular day had been somewhat  lax from the beginning; and grew laxer during the inordinate  length of the discourse。  Francie lay there in his appointed  hiding…hole; looking abroad between two whin…bushes。  His  view was across the course of the burn; then over a piece of  plain moorland; to a gap between two hills; nothing moved but  grouse; and some cattle who slowly traversed his field of  view; heading northward: he heard the psalms; and sang words  of his own to the savage and melancholy music; for he had his  own design in hand; and terror and cowardice prevailed in his  bosom alternately; like the hot and the cold fit of an ague。   Courage was uppermost during the singing; which he  accompanied through all its length with this impromptu  strain:


'And I will ding Jock Crozer down No later than the day。'


Presently the voice of the preacher came to him in wafts; at  the wind's will; as by the opening and shutting of a door;  wild spasms of screaming; as of some undiscerned gigantic  hill…bird stirred with inordinate passion; succeeded to  intervals of silence; and Francie heard them with a critical  ear。  'Ay;' he thought at last; 'he'll do; he has the bit in  his mou' fairly。'

He had observed that his friend; or rather his enemy; Jock  Crozer; had been established at a very critical part of the  line of outposts; namely; where the burn issues by an abrupt  gorge from the semicircle of high moors。  If anything was  calculated to nerve him to battle it was this。  The post was  important; next to the Hill…end itself; it might be called  the key to the position; and it was where the cover was bad;  and in which it was most natural to place a child。  It should  have been Heathercat's; why had it been given to Crozer?  An  exquisite fear of what should be the answer passed through  his marrow every time he faced the question。  Was it possible  that Crozer could have boasted? that there were rumours  abroad to his … Heathercat's … discredit? that his honour was  publicly sullied?  All the world went dark about him at the  thought; he sank without a struggle into the midnight pool of  despair; and every time he so sank; he brought back with him  … not drowned heroism indeed; but half…drowned courage by the  locks。  His heart beat very slowly as he deserted his  station; and began to crawl towards that of Crozer。   Something pulled him back; and it was not the sense of duty;  but a remembrance of Crozer's build and hateful readiness of  fist。  Duty; as he conceived it; pointed him forward on the  rueful path that he was travelling。  Duty bade him redeem his  name if he were able; at the risk of broken bones; and his  bones and every tooth in his head ached by anticipation。  An  awful subsidiary fear whispered him that if he were hurt; he  should disgrace himself by weeping。  He consoled himself;  boy…like; with the consideration that he was not yet  committed; he could easily steal over unseen to Crozer's  post; and he had a continuous private idea that he would very  probably steal back again。  His course took him so near the  minister that he could hear some of his words: 'What news;  minister; of Claver'se?  He's going round like a roaring  rampaging lion。 。 。 。





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