Traitor or patriot? : $b A tale of the Rye-House PlotRowsell, Mary C. (Mary Catherine)
History
Traitor or patriot? : $b A tale of the Rye-House Plot
Rowsell, Mary C. (Mary Catherine)
Great Britain -- History -- Charles II, 1660-1685 -- Fiction; Rye House Plot, 1683 -- Fiction
Ugly, or altogether unpicturesque it assuredly could not be called;
but incongruous and disorderly it was, with its queer irregular mass
of wall and roof, new and old, time stained and brand new, all flung
together without apparent rhyme or reason, as if they might settle
down as they could.
It was some time before Lawrence was able to distinguish, amid such
countless odd holes and corners, the door by which he had found his
way into the open air; and longer still before, carrying his eye to
the upper story, he discovered the row of little bull's-eye casements
which lighted the corridor conducting to the king's apartments. That
it ran to the rear of the palace he had some hazy sort of notion;
since through one of those casements he had caught a glimpse of
waving green beechen boughs, and had guessed at the possibility of a
garden beyond, while not a single tree shaded the street front of the
palace.
[Sidenote: A long nap.]
The last straw, eastern wiseacres say, breaks the camel's back; and
it is possible that his toilsome little ascent to the pavilion, and
the burning sunbeams pouring in through the glass on Lawrence's head
bore their share in producing the drowsy sensations stealing so
rapidly upon him, that all the scene before him dissolved as he
looked, into one confusing haze. "'Tis like a dream," he murmured to
himself, pressing the palms of both his hands on his throbbing
temples, in a desperate effort to shake off their oppression. "A
murrain on those rascals for drenching me with that stuff till I feel
as if I was spinning in an Epping Fair merry-go-round. Like a
dream--a bad dream"--and his head drooping lower and lower upon his
arms outspread upon the broad window-seat, rested a dead weight there
at last, and he fell asleep.
Heavily as one of the Seven Sleepers he slept on. Ten, eleven,
mid-day came and went; and still, as afternoon lengthened, and the
shadows grew deep upon the grass, he stirred only to sink back again
into the unrefreshing sleep of utter fatigue and exhaustion. Sultry
as midsummer the sunbeams poured into the airless chamber, till its
walls seemed sheeted in parti-coloured flame, which grew but the more
dazzling as the time of parting drew on, and the gray evening mists
began to spread over the low-lying fields.
[Sidenote: A sudden waking.]
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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