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The Buccaneer A Tale   By: (1800-1881)

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TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE: Every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as possible; please see detailed list of printing issues at the end of the text.

THE BUCCANEER.

COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME.

LONDON:

RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET:

BELL AND BRADFUTE, EDINBURGH; J. CUMMING, DUBLIN.

1840.

London: Printed by A. SPOTTISWOODE. New Street Square.

STANDARD NOVELS.

N^{o} LXXIX.

"No kind of literature is so generally attractive as Fiction. Pictures of life and manners, and Stories of adventure, are more eagerly received by the many than graver productions, however important these latter may be. Apuleius is better remembered by his fable of Cupid and Psyche than by his abstruser Platonic writings; and the Decameron of BOCCACCIO has outlived the Latin Treatises, and other learned works of that author."

[Illustration: THE BUCCANEER.

The Protector instantly exclaimed "Guards! what ho! without there!" Five or six rushed into the room and laid hands upon Robin.

J. Cowse, pinxt. W. Greatbatch, sc.

London. Published by Richard Bentley. 1840.]

THE BUCCANEER,

A Tale

BY Mrs S. C. Hall.

[Illustration: Kneeling on a high backed and curiously carved chair, which he leaned over pulpit fashion, was seen the lean, lanky figure of Fleetword. ]

LONDON, RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET, CUMMING, DUBLIN, BELL & BRADFUTE, EDINBURGH, 1840.

THE

BUCCANEER.

A TALE.

BY

MRS. S. C. HALL.

Stay! methinks I see A person in yond cave. Who should that bee? I know her ensignes now 'tis Chivalrie Possess'd with sleepe, dead as a lethargie; If any charme will wake her, 'tis the name Of our Meliadus! I'll use his Fame.

BEN JONSON.

REVISED BY THE AUTHOR.

LONDON: RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET: BELL AND BRADFUTE, EDINBURGH; J. CUMMING, DUBLIN. 1840.

THE BUCCANEER.

CHAPTER I.

With roomy decks, her guns of mighty strength, Whose low laid mouths each mounting billow laves, Deep in her draught, and warlike in her length, She seems a sea wasp flying on the waves.

DRYDEN.

It was between the hours of ten and twelve on a fine night of February, in the year sixteen hundred and fifty six, that three men moored a light skiff in a small bay, overshadowed by the heavy and sombre rocks that distinguish the Isle of Shepey from other parts along the coast of Kent, the white cliffs of which present an aspect at once so cheerful and so peculiar to the shores of Britain. The quiet sea seemed, in the murky light, like a dense and motionless mass, save when the gathering clouds passed from the brow of the waning moon, and permitted its beams to repose in silver lines on its undulating bosom.

It was difficult to account for the motive that could have induced any mariner to land upon so unpropitious a spot, hemmed in as it was on every side, and apparently affording no outlet but that by which they had entered the trackless and illimitable ocean. Without a moment's deliberation, however, the steersman, who had guided his boat into the creek, sprang lightly to the shore: another followed; while the third, folding himself in the capacious cloak his leader had thrown off, resumed his place, as if resolved to take his rest, at least for a time.

"Little doubt of our having foul weather, master," observed the younger of the two, in a half querulous, half positive tone, as standing on a huge bank of sea weed, he regarded first the heavens, and then the earth, with the scrutinising gaze of one accustomed to pry into their mysteries. His companion made no answer, but commenced unrolling a rich silk scarf, that had enveloped his throat, and twisting it into loose folds, passed it several times around his waist having previously withdrawn from a wide leathern belt that intervened between his jacket and trousers a brace of curiously fashioned pistols, which he now handed to the young sailor, while he elevated the hilt of his dagger, so that, without removing or disturbing the silken sash, he could use it in an instant... Continue reading book >>




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