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The Lion's Skin By: Rafael Sabatini (1875-1950) |
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By Rafael Sabatini
I. THE FANATIC II. AT THE "ADAM AND EVE" III. THE WITNESS IV. Mr. GREEN V. MOONSHINE VI. HORTENSIA'S RETURN VII. FATHER AND SON VIII. TEMPTATION IX. THE CHAMPION X. SPURS TO THE RELUCTANT XI. THE ASSAULT AT ARMS XII. SUNSHINE AND SHADOW XIII. THE FORLORN HOPE XIV. LADY OSTERMORE XV. LOVE AND RAGE XVI. Mr. GREEN EXECUTES HIS WARRANT XVII. AMID THE GRAVES XVIII. THE GHOST OF THE PAST XIX. THE END OF LORD OSTERMORE XX. Mr. CARYLL'S IDENTITY XXI. THE LION'S SKIN XXII. THE HUNTERS XXIII. THE LION
THE LION'S SKIN CHAPTER I. THE FANATIC
Mr. Caryll, lately from Rome, stood by the window, looking out over the
rainswept, steaming quays to Notre Dame on the island yonder. Overhead
rolled and crackled the artillery of an April thunderstorm, and Mr.
Caryll, looking out upon Paris in her shroud of rain, under her pall of
thundercloud, felt himself at harmony with Nature. Over his heart,
too, the gloom of storm was lowering, just as in his heart it was still
little more than April time. Behind him, in that chamber furnished in dark oak and leather of a reign
or two ago, sat Sir Richard Everard at a vast writing table all a litter
with books and papers; and Sir Richard watched his adoptive son with
fierce, melancholy eyes, watched him until he grew impatient of this
pause. "Well?" demanded the old baronet harshly. "Will you undertake it,
Justin, now that the chance has come?" And he added: "You'll never
hesitate if you are the man I have sought to make you." Mr. Caryll turned slowly. "It is because I am the man that you that God
and you have made me that I do hesitate." His voice was quiet and pleasantly modulated, and he spoke English with
the faintest slur perceptible, perhaps, only to the keenest ear of
a French accent. To ears less keen it would merely seem that he
articulated with a precision so singular as to verge on pedantry. The light falling full upon his profile revealed the rather singular
countenance that was his own. It was not in any remarkable beauty that
its distinction lay, for by the canons of beauty that prevail it was not
beautiful. The features were irregular and inclined to harshness,
the nose was too abruptly arched, the chin too long and square, the
complexion too pallid. Yet a certain dignity haunted that youthful
face, of such a quality as to stamp it upon the memory of the merest
passer by. The mouth was difficult to read and full of contradictions;
the lips were full and red, and you would declare them the lips of a
sensualist but for the line of stern, almost grim, determination in
which they met; and yet, somewhere behind that grimness, there appeared
to lurk a haunting whimsicality; a smile seemed ever to impend, but
whether sweet or bitter none could have told until it broke. The eyes
were as remarkable; wide set and slow moving, as becomes the eyes of an
observant man, they were of an almost greenish color, and so level in
their ordinary glance as to seem imbued with an uncanny penetration.
His hair he dared to wear his own, and clubbed it in a broad ribbon
of watered silk was almost of the hue of bronze, with here and there a
glint of gold, and as luxuriant as any wig. For the rest, he was scarcely above the middle height, of an almost
frail but very graceful slenderness, and very graceful, too, in all
his movements. In dress he was supremely elegant, with the elegance of
France, that in England would be accounted foppishness. He wore a suit
of dark blue cloth, with white satin linings that were revealed when he
moved; it was heavily laced with gold, and a ramiform pattern broidered
in gold thread ran up the sides of his silk stockings of a paler blue.
Jewels gleamed in the Brussels at his throat, and there were diamond
buckles on his lacquered, red heeled shoes. Sir Richard considered him with anxiety and some chagrin. "Justin!" he
cried, a world of reproach in his voice. "What can you need to ponder?" "Whatever it may be," said Mr... Continue reading book >>
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