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Read Ebook: Afloat (Sur l'eau) by Maupassant Guy De Riou Edouard Illustrator Ensor Laura Translator
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Ebook has 678 lines and 39063 words, and 14 pages
OF VOLUME THIRD.
Page
Young Hunting 295 Young Waters 301 Lammikin 307 Long Lonkin 313 The Laird of Waristoun 316 Mary Hamilton, 324 Mary Hamilton, 329 Sir Hugh, or The Jew's Daughter, 331 Sir Hugh, 335 Sir Patrick Spens 338 Lord Livingston 343 Clerk Tamas 349 John Thomson and The Turk 352 Lord Thomas Stuart 357 The Spanish Virgin 360 The Lady Isabella's Tragedy 366 The Cruel Black 370 King Malcolm and Sir Colvin 378 Skin Anna; Fair Annie 383 Lady Margaret 390 Earl Richard 395
GLOSSARY 403
CONTINUED.
EARL RICHARD.
"O Lady, rock never your young son, young, One hour langer for me; For I have a sweetheart in Garlioch Wells, I love far better than thee.
"The very sole o' that lady's foot 5 Than thy face is far mair white:" "But, nevertheless, now, Erl Richard, Ye will bide in my bower a' night?"
She birled him with the ale and wine, As they sat down to sup: 10 A living man he laid him down, But I wot he ne'er rose up.
Then up and spake the popinjay, That flew aboun her head; "Lady! keep weel your green cleiding 15 Frae gude Erl Richard's bleid."--
"O better I'll keep my green cleiding Frae gude Erl Richard's bleid, Than thou canst keep thy clattering toung, That trattles in thy head." 20
She has call'd upon her bower maidens, She has call'd them ane by ane; "There lies a dead man in my bour: I wish that he were gane!"
They hae booted him, and spurred him, 25 As he was wont to ride;-- A hunting-horn tied round his waist, A sharpe sword by his side; And they hae had him to the wan water, For a' men call it Clyde. 30
Then up and spoke the popinjay That sat upon the tree-- "What hae ye done wi' Erl Richard? Ye were his gay ladye."--
"Come down, come down, my bonny bird, 35 And sit upon my hand; And thou sall hae a cage o' gowd, Where thou hast but the wand."--
"Awa! awa! ye ill woman! Nae cage o' gowd for me; 40 As ye hae done to Erl Richard, Sae wad ye do to me."
She hadna cross'd a rigg o' land, A rigg but barely ane, When she met wi' his auld father, 45 Came riding all alane.
"Where hae ye been, now, ladye fair, Where hae ye been sae late? We hae been seeking Erl Richard, But him we canna get."-- 50
"Erl Richard kens a' the fords in Clyde, He'll ride them ane by ane; And though the night was ne'er sae mirk, Erl Richard will be hame."
O it fell anes, upon a day, 55 The King was boun to ride; And he has mist him, Erl Richard, Should hae ridden on his right side.
The ladye turn'd her round about, Wi' mickle mournfu' din-- 60 "It fears me sair o' Clyde water, That he is drown'd therein."--
"Gar douk, gar douk," the King he cried, "Gar douk for gold and fee; O wha will douk for Erl Richard's sake, 65 Or wha will douk for me?"
They douked in at ae weil-heid, And out aye at the other; "We can douk nae mair for Erl Richard, Although he were our brother." 70
It fell that, in that ladye's castle, The King was boun to bed; And up and spake the popinjay, That flew abune his head.
"Leave aff your douking on the day, 75 And douk upon the night; And where that sackless knight lies slain, The candles will burn bright."--
"O there's a bird within this bower, That sings baith sad and sweet; 80 O there's a bird within your bower, Keeps me frae my night's sleep."
They left the douking on the day, And douk'd upon the night; And where that sackless knight lay slain, 85 The candles burned bright.
The deepest pot in a' the linn, They fand Erl Richard in; A green turf tyed across his breast, To keep that gude lord down. 90
Then up and spake the King himsell, When he saw the deadly wound-- "O wha has slain my right-hand man, That held my hawk and hound?"--
Then up and spake the popinjay, 95 Says--"What needs a' this din? It was his light leman took his life, And hided him in the linn."
She swore her by the grass sae grene, Sae did she by the corn, 100 She hadna seen him, Erl Richard, Since Moninday at morn.
"Put na the wite on me," she said, "It was my may Catherine:" Then they hae cut baith fern and thorn, 105 To burn that maiden in.
It wadna take upon her cheik, Nor yet upon her chin; Nor yet upon her yellow hair, To cleanse the deadly sin. 110
The maiden touch'd the clay-cauld corpse, A drap it never bled; The ladye laid her hand on him, And soon the ground was red.
Out they hae ta'en her, may Catherine, 115 And put her mistress in; The flame tuik fast upon her cheik, Tuik fast upon her chin; Tuik fast upon her faire body-- She burn'd like hollin-green. 120
"Pooh, it's the breeze from Agay," answered Raymond, "it is calm round Cape Roux."
"Talk away, we shall have a west wind," replied Bernard.
I leant over to look at the barometer in the saloon. It had fallen during the last half hour. I told Bernard, who smiled and whispered:
"It feels like a westerly wind, sir."
And now my curiosity awakens; the curiosity special to all those who wander over the sea, which makes them see everything, notice everything, and take an interest in the smallest detail. My glasses no longer leave my eyes; I look at the colour of the water on the horizon. It remains clear, varnished, unruffled. If there is a breeze, it is still far off.
What a personage the wind is for the sailors! They speak of it as of a man, an all-powerful sovereign, sometimes terrible and sometimes kindly. It is the main topic of conversation all the day through, and it is the subject of one's incessant thoughts throughout the days and nights. You land folk, know it not! As for us, we know it better than our father or our mother, the invisible, the terrible, the capricious, the sly, the treacherous, the devouring tyrant. We love it and we dread it; we know its maliciousness and its anger, which the warnings in the heavens or in the depths, slowly teach us to anticipate. It forces us to think of it at every minute, at every second, for the struggle between it and us, is indeed ceaseless. All our being is on the alert for the battle; our eye to detect undiscernible appearances; our skin to feel its caress or its blow, our spirit to recognize its mood, foresee its caprices, judge whether it is calm or wayward. No enemy, no woman gives us so powerful a sensation of struggle, nor compels us to so much foresight, for it is the master of the sea, it is that thing which we may avoid, make use of, or fly from, but which we can never subdue. And there reigns in the soul of a sailor as in that of a believer, the idea of an irascible and formidable God, the mysterious, religious, infinite fear of the wind, and respect for its power.
"Here it comes, sir," Bernard said to me.
Far away, very far away, at the end of the horizon, a blue-black line lengthens out on the water. It is nothing, a shade, an imperceptible shadow; it is the wind. Now we await it motionless, under the heat of the sun.
I look at the time, eight o'clock, and I say:
"Bless me, it is early for the westerly wind."
"It will blow hard in the afternoon," replied Bernard.
I raised my eyes to the sail, hanging flat, loose and inert. Its great triangle seemed to reach up to the sky, for we had hoisted on the foremast the great fine-weather gaff topsail and its yard overtopped the mast-head by quite two yards. All is motionless, we might be on land. The barometer is still falling. However, the dark line perceived afar, approaches. The metallic lustre of the waters is suddenly dimmed and transformed into a slatey shade. The sky is pure and cloudless.
Suddenly, around us the polished surface of the sea is rippled by imperceptible shivers gliding rapidly over it, appearing but to be effaced, as though it were riddled by a rain of thousands of little pinches of sand.
The sail quivers slightly, and presently the main boom slowly lurches over to starboard. A light breath now caresses my face, and the shivers on the water increase around us, as though the rain of sand had become continuous. The cutter begins to move forward. She glides on upright, and a slight plash makes itself heard along her sides. I feel the tiller stiffen in my hand, that long brass crossbar which looks in the sun like a fiery stem, and the breeze steadily increases. We shall have to tack, but what matter; the boat sails close to the wind, and if the breeze holds, we shall be able to beat up to Saint-Rapha?l before the sun goes down.
We now approach the squadron, whose six ironclads and two despatch boats turn slowly at their anchors, with their bows to the west. Then we tack towards the open sea to pass the Formigues rocks, which are marked by a tower in the middle of the gulf. The breeze freshens more and more with surprising rapidity, and the waves rise up short and choppy. The yacht bends low under her full set of sails, and runs on, followed by the dingy, which with stretched-out painter is hurried through the foam, her nose in the air and stern in the water.
On nearing the island of Saint-Honorat we pass by a naked rock, red and bristling like a porcupine, so rugged, so armed with teeth, points, and claws as to be well-nigh impossible of access; and one must advance with precaution, placing one's feet in the hollows between the tusks: it is called Saint-Ferr?ol.
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