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قراءة كتاب Stingaree
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STINGAREE
BY
E. W. HORNUNG
ILLUSTRATED BY
GEORGE W. LAMBERT
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
NEW YORK 1910
Copyright, 1905, by
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
CONTENTS
| Page | ||
| I. | A Voice in the Wilderness | 1 |
| II. | The Black Hole of Glenranald | 32 |
| III. | "To the Vile Dust" | 70 |
| IV. | A Bushranger at Bay | 98 |
| V. | The Taking of Stingaree | 121 |
| VI. | The Honor of the Road | 144 |
| VII. | The Purification of Mulfera | 168 |
| VIII. | A Duel in the Desert | 190 |
| IX. | The Villain-Worshipper | 215 |
| X. | The Moth and the Star | 252 |
ILLUSTRATIONS
| "My name's Stingaree!" | Frontispiece |
| "Any message, young fellow?" | 66 |
| Mr. Kentish watched the little operation of "sticking up" without a word | 98 |
| The gray sergeant flung his arms round their prisoner | 166 |
| Stingaree toppled out of the saddle | 198 |
| The mare spun round, bucking as she spun | 238 |
| Stingaree knocked in vain | 246 |
Stingaree
A Voice in the Wilderness
I
O cari fior,
Recate i miei sospiri,
Narrate i miei matiri,
Ditele o cari fior——"
Miss Bouverie ceased on the high note, as abruptly as string that snaps beneath the bow, and revolved with the music-stool, to catch but her echoes in the empty room. None had entered behind her back; there was neither sound nor shadow in the deep veranda through the open door. But for the startled girl at the open piano, Mrs. Clarkson's sanctum was precisely as Mrs. Clarkson had left it an hour before; her own photograph, in as many modes, beamed from the usual number of ornamental frames; there was nothing whatever to confirm a wild suspicion of the living lady's untimely return. And yet either guilty consciences, or an ear as sensitive as it was true, had heard an unmistakable step outside.
Hilda Bouverie lived to look magnificent when she sang, her fine frame drawn up to its last inch, her throat a pillar of pale coral, her mouth the perfect round, her teeth a noble relic of barbarism; but sweeter she never was than in these days, or at this moment of them, as she sat with lips just parted and teeth just showing, in a simple summer frock of her own unaided making. Her eyes, of the one deep Tasmanian blue, were still open very wide, but no longer with the same apprehension; for a step there was, but a step that jingled; nor did they recognize the silhouette in top-boots which at length stood bowing on the threshold.
"Please finish it!" prayed a voice that Miss Bouverie liked in her turn; but it was too much at ease for one entirely strange to her, and she rose with little embarrassment and no hesitation at all.
"Indeed, no! I thought I had the station to myself."
"So you had—I have not seen a soul."
Miss Bouverie instantly perceived that honors were due from her.
"I am so sorry! You've come to see Mr. and Mrs. Clarkson?" she cried. "Mrs. Clarkson has just left for Melbourne with her maid, and Mr. Clarkson has gone mustering with all his men. But the Indian cook is about somewhere. I'll find him, and he shall make some tea."
The visitor planted himself with much gallantry in