The Broken Font: A Story of the Civil War, Vol. 2 (of 2)Sherer, Moyle
History
The Broken Font: A Story of the Civil War, Vol. 2 (of 2)
Sherer, Moyle
Great Britain -- History -- Civil War, 1642-1649 -- Fiction
Cuthbert heard it, and the loud voice of Maxwell, and saw the men
rushing to their arms. He hurried to his post; and there, as he stood,
saw stragglers coming in, who stopped and stooped upon the very spot
where the body of the youth lay, as if to rifle it. His regiment was
at the same moment faced to the left, and moved a quarter of a mile
off to new ground. Here they halted and stood at ease.
Now came rumours how that great and good men had fallen on the King’s
side; that the gallant Caernarvon had been slain by the sword, and
that a bullet had taken the life of the noble Falkland.
The trumpets did seem to wail them, they sounded so desolate and
mournful as the shades of evening came on. As soon as he could get
away, Cuthbert again hurried to the place where the corpse of his own
particular victim lay. He got a torch, and searched the body, if haply
he might find a name: in the bosom next the heart there lay the
miniature of a girl of calm pure beauty; from the features and the
costume, it seemed that of an Italian. Cuthbert sighed, and continued
his search for some paper that might give a name. At last, in the
breast pocket of the doublet beneath his buff coat, he found a
letter:--the address was “Martin Noble,”--the handwriting was that of
his own father.
CHAP. XVII.
Lead us from hence; where we may leisurely
Each one demand, and answer to his part
Perform’d in this wide gap of time.
_Winter’s Tale._
It is not necessary to the after-story of the persons in our domestic
drama that the various fortunes of that unnatural war, which desolated
England for so many years, should be further related.
From the bloody field of Newbury, of which we have already spoken, to
the close of that mighty and memorable contest which convulsed the
whole kingdom, our tale pauses. The imagination of the reader must
pass with us in haste across that afflicting season of violence and
woe to consider the first-fruits of that harvest, the seed of which
had been sown in the whirlwind of human passions, and had been watered
by torrents of human blood.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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