The Romance of War; or, The Highlanders in Spain, Volume 1 (of 3)Grant, James
General
The Romance of War; or, The Highlanders in Spain, Volume 1 (of 3)
Grant, James
Great Britain. Army. Gordon Highlanders -- Fiction; Peninsular War, 1807-1814 -- Fiction
"Sir Allan Lisle," cried Ronald with a stern tone, while his heart beat
tumultuously, "Lowland lawyers and unlooked-for misfortunes are, I know,
completing our ruin, and the pen and parchment have made more inroads
upon us than ever your ancestors could have done with all Perthshire at
their back; but, truly, it ill becomes a gentleman of birth and breeding
to speak thus slightingly of an old and honourable Highland family. If
my father, inheriting as he does ancient prejudices, has been hostile to
your interests, I, Sir Allan, never have been so; and the time was once,
when a Lisle dared not have spoken thus tauntingly to a Stuart of the
house of Lochisla."
Sir Allan admired the proud and indignant air with which the youth
spoke; but he wished to humble him if possible, and deemed that irony
was a better weapon than anger to meet the fiery young Highlander with.
He gave a sort of tragi-comic start, and was about to make some
sarcastic reply, when his foot caught the root of a tree; he reeled
backward, and fell over the rocky bank into the Isla, which formed a
deep, dark, and noiseless pool below.
A loud and startling cry burst from Alice, as her father suddenly
disappeared from her side.
"Save him, save him, Ronald! Oh, Ronald! if you love me, save my
father!" she cried in accents at once soul-stirring and imploring, while
she threw herself upon her knees, and, not daring to look upon the
stream, covered her eyes with her hands, calling alternately upon Heaven
and her lover, in tones which defy the power of language to describe, to
save her father.
"Dearest Alice, calm yourself; be pacified,—he shall not perish," cried
Ronald, whose presence of mind had never once forsaken him, as he cast
aside his bonnet and short sporting coat, and gazed over the bank upon
the rapid river running between two abrupt walls of rock, against the
dark sides of which the spray and foam raised by Sir Allan’s struggles
was dashed. The latter was beating the water fruitlessly in the centre
of the pool, where it was deep and the current strong; yet he made no
outcry, as if unwilling to add to the distress which he knew his
daughter already experienced.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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