The Merry Men, and Other Tales and FablesStevenson, Robert Louis
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The Merry Men, and Other Tales and Fables
Stevenson, Robert Louis
Boys -- Fiction; Great Britain -- History -- 19th century -- Fiction; Paranormal fiction; Treasure troves -- Fiction
I looked at him more closely. He was superlatively well-built, light,
and lithe and strong; he was well-featured; his yellow eyes were very
large, though, perhaps, not very expressive; take him altogether, he
was a pleasant-looking lad, and I had no fault to find with him, beyond
that he was of a dusky hue, and inclined to hairyness; two
characteristics that I disliked. It was his mind that puzzled, and yet
attracted me. The doctor’s phrase—an innocent—came back to me; and I
was wondering if that were, after all, the true description, when the
road began to go down into the narrow and naked chasm of a torrent. The
waters thundered tumultuously in the bottom; and the ravine was filled
full of the sound, the thin spray, and the claps of wind, that
accompanied their descent. The scene was certainly impressive; but the
road was in that part very securely walled in; the mule went steadily
forward; and I was astonished to perceive the paleness of terror in the
face of my companion. The voice of that wild river was inconstant, now
sinking lower as if in weariness, now doubling its hoarse tones;
momentary freshets seemed to swell its volume, sweeping down the gorge,
raving and booming against the barrier walls; and I observed it was at
each of these accessions to the clamour, that my driver more
particularly winced and blanched. Some thoughts of Scottish
superstition and the river Kelpie, passed across my mind; I wondered if
perchance the like were prevalent in that part of Spain; and turning to
Felipe, sought to draw him out.
“What is the matter?” I asked.
“O, I am afraid,” he replied.
“Of what are you afraid?” I returned. “This seems one of the safest
places on this very dangerous road.”
“It makes a noise,” he said, with a simplicity of awe that set my
doubts at rest.
The lad was but a child in intellect; his mind was like his body,
active and swift, but stunted in development; and I began from that
time forth to regard him with a measure of pity, and to listen at first
with indulgence, and at last even with pleasure, to his disjointed
babble.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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