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<TITLE> Buffy, the VampireSlayer</TITLE>
                               Buffy, the Vampire Slayer                                           by                                      Joss Whedon             FADE IN:             EXT. MEDIEVAL VILLAGE - JUST BEFORE SUNSET             We see an Italian village at the height of the plague.  Funeral              processions, decrepit houses with theirwindows boarded up...               the stench of death all around.             TITLE:  EUROPE. THE DARK AGES             Through the filth a KNIGHT walks his horse.  He is weary but              not so dingy as hissurrounding; a stranger in these parts.               He comes to an inn, where a boy takes his horse round back.               He enters the inn.             INT. INN - SAME TIME             The inn is dark and almostempty.  A couple of patrons drink              silently at tables.  Behind the bar stands a slovenly BARMAID,              dark-haired and lazy.  She scratches at her shoulder, on which              we see a birthmark.  Theknight approaches the bar, throws              money down.                                       KNIGHT                            A tankard of ale, wench.             The barmaid pours him a cup of ale.  He drinks deep, standsa              moment.                                       KNIGHT                                (continuing)                            Some plague we're having, huh?                                                                    CUTTO:             INT. INN - UPSTAIRS HALL/BEDROOM - NIGHT             The barmaid leads the knight, by candlelight, upstairs to his              room.  The door opens inward.  The knight stands in thedoorway,              places a hand on the barmaid's hip.  She pauses a moment, then              breaks free of his grasp, starts down the hall.  He laughs a              bit, resignedly, and closes the door.             A VAMPIREstands behind it.  Not two feet from the knight,              grinning at him.  His eyes are skull-hollow and dancing in his              head, his bloody smile full with teeth.  His skin is gray, and              peeling.  The knightturns slowly and sees him.                                       KNIGHT                            Oh, my god...             The vampire licks his lips.             He is on the knight in a second, pushing him backwardsinto              the middle of the small room.  The knight struggles but is no              match for the vampire, who buries his face in the knight's              neck.  The knight screams.             ANGLE ONDOOR             It suddenly flies open, the lock shattered.             The vampire turns like a frightened animal.  In the doorway              stands the barmaid, a SLAYER.  In her hand is a wooden stake.             Thevampire drops the knight, who crabs backwards into a corner.               The Slayer and the vampire come at each other.  The Slayer              spins and kicks; the vampire flies back.  Snarling, he comes              backat the slayer.  They struggle; he slips free and is out              the door.             For a moment, the Slayer remains still, crouched on the floor.               The knight watches her.  She seems to be making a decision--              perhaps even knows what is going to happen.             She runs at the window.                                                                    CUT TO:             EXT. IN FRONT OF THE INN - SAMETIME             The vampire comes running out the front door.  Before he is a              few feet from the front of the inn, the Slayer SMASHES through              the upstairs window and lands on him.  They both hitthe ground,              and she plants the stake right in his heart.             After a moment, we hear a voice:                                       AMILYN (O.S.)                            The lord giveth, and the lordtaketh                             away.  Ashes, ashes...             She looks up.                                       AMILYN                                (continuing)                            ... All fall down             There are ten or morevampires walking slowly toward her in              the otherwise deserted street.  At the front, maybe ten feet              away, is AMILYN.             Amilyn is a grinning jackal, a servant to the Vampire-King.               Hisgarb is a rotted approximation of a courtier's livery.  He              ambles toward the Slayer, giggling, as she stands.             Behind her is LOTHOS, the Vampire-King.  His skin is deep white,              and smooth.  Hewears a long coat -- his dress is not of any              era.  He is practically upon her before he speaks.                                       LOTHOS                            You must forgive Amilyn.  Hetends                             to drool before supper.             She turns.  He smiles, almostlovingly.                                       SLAYER                            Lothos...                                       LOTHOS                            You people will never learn.             She swings at him but he grabs herarm.  Amilyn laughs              obnoxiously.  Lothos grabs the back of the Slayer's head, brings              her to him in a lovingembrace.                                       LOTHOS                                (continuing)                            We can't be stopped.  This is our                             world now.             He pulls her head back swiftly,snapping her spine as her head              hits the back of her legs.  Lightning flashes.                                                                    CUT TO:             INT. ENGLISH CASTLE - NIGHT             Lightningflashes outside the window.  It is torrenting rain.               An old MAN speaks to a hysterical GIRL of sixteen or so.  They              are both obviously noble ofbirth.                                       GIRL                            I can't!                                       MAN                            You know you must.  There is only                             one.  Now you are thatone.  It is                             time.                                       GIRL                            Why?  Why me?                                       MAN                            She has died.  You are the nextto                             be called.  Why do you think you                             were sent to me?  Trained as you                             were?  You bear the mark.             He pulls aside her blouse to reveal a birthmark on hershoulder,              identical to the barmaid's.                                       MAN                                (continuing)                            The mark of theCoven.                                       GIRL                            I don't understand.                                       MAN                            Ever since Adam and Eve first left                             the garden, hefollowed: the serpent.                              Satan.  He sends his legion in the                             shape of men, to feed on us, to                             breed his Hell on our earth.  They                             are a plagueupon us.             The man unravels a satchel of cloth.  From it he pulls an              elaborately carved wooden stake.                                       MAN                                (continuing)                            Butas long as there have been                             vampire, there has been the Coven;                             the line of Slayers.  Ones with the                             strength and the skill to kill them,                             to findthem where they gather and                             stop the swell of their numbers.                              One dies, the next is called.                                       GIRL                            I'm just agirl.                                       MAN                            You are much more.             He hands her the stake.  She feels thefit.                                       MAN                                (continuing)                            One dies, the next is called...             As she grips the stake more tightly, an awareness and sense of              powersees to fill her.  She lifts the stake over her head.             CLOSEUP - A HAND             The hand is lifted high, but it is not the girl's.  It holds              not a stake, but a pom-pom.             EXT. HEMERYHIGH FOOTBALL FIELD - WIDER SHOT - DAY             Opening CREDITS OVER:             A football game in progress.  The stands are pretty full, the              crowd enthusiastic.  The hemery football stadium is justthat;              a real stadium, not just makeshift stands on grass.             On  the sidelines are the Hemery cheerleaders, led by BUFFY.              She is blonde (in nature as in name), pretty, andvery              gracefully athletic.  She obviously enjoys what she is doing,              and she's good at it.             With her on the squad are JENNIFER and NICOLE, two of her best              friends.  Beside them theCOACH, yelling at the players.  The              scoreboard reads HEMERY VS. SETON.             On the field are JEFFREY, wide receiver (and Buffy's boyfriend),              ANDY, quarterback, and GRUELLER, the huge lefttackle.             Buffy and the crowd wince as Andy is sacked for a nine-yard              loss.                                       COACH                            Come on, do the play!  The one                             where...  theone from the book!                              Where you make it go forward!             The players huddle.                                       ANDY                            All right, guys, come on!             He hits Grueller'shelmet.                                       ANDY                                (continuing)                            Grueller!  Fill that hole!  They                             were all over me!  Okay.  Let'srun                             twenty-two.  Grueller, close the                             pocket, watch out for thirty-five.                              Thompson, run the post, right, wide                             out.  Jeffrey, go up the middleand                             run around like a chicken.             They clap and break.  As they line up, Jeffrey looks over at              Buffy.  She smiles at him.  He winks, very suave.                                       BUFFYAND CHEERLEADERS                            Jeffrey!  Jeffrey!                             He's our man!                              If he can't do it                             We don't want it!             On the hike, Andy drops back and looksfor a receiver.  Jeffrey              runs in circles like an idiot (and not unlike a chicken), waving              his arms until Andy sails him the ball and he breaks for a              touchdown.             The crowd goes wild --particularly Buffy, who does an              impressive standing backflip.  Nicole looks at her, impressed.               Buffy smiles at her, giddy.                                       COACH                                (lookingaround)                            Is that good?  Was that a good thing?                                                                    CUT TO:             INT. THE MALL - AFTERNOON             The mall is typically


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of Jack The Giant Killer, by Percival LeighThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use itunder the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.orgTitle: Jack The Giant KillerAuthor: Percival LeighIllustrator: John LeechRelease Date: February 26, 2014 [EBook#45021]Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JACK THE GIANT KILLER ***Produced by David Widger from images generously providedby The Internet ArchiveJACK THE GIANTKILLER.By Percival LeighThe Author Of "The Comic Latin Grammar."With Illustrations by JOHN LEECH1853[Illustration: 013]{001}THE ARGUMENT.            I sing the deeds of famous Jack,                The doughty GiantKiller hight;            How he did various monsters "whack,"                And so became a gallant knight.             In Arthur's days of splendid fun                (His Queen was Guenever the Pliant),--             Ere Britain'ssorrows had begun;                When every cave contained its giant;             When griffins fierce as bats were rife;                 And till a knight had slain his dragon,              At trifling risk of limbs and life,                Hedid n't think he'd much to brag on;{002}     When wizards o'er the welkin flew;     Ere science had devised balloon;     And 'twas a common thing to view     A fairy ballet by the moon;--     Our hero played his valiantpranks;     Earned loads of _kudos, vulgÃ´_ glory,     A lady, "tin," and lots of thanks;--         Relate, oh Muse! his wondrous story.OF GIANTS IN GENERAL.     A Giant was, I should premise,     A hulking lout ofmonstrous size;     He mostly stood--I know you 'll laugh--     About as high as a giraffe.     His waist was some three yards in girth:     When he walked he shook the earth.     His eyes were of the class called"goggle,"     Fitter for the scowl than ogle.     His mouth, decidedly carnivorous,     Like a shark's,--the Saints deliver us!     He yawned like a huge sarcophagus,     For he was an Anthropophagus,     And his tusks werehuge and craggy;     His hair, and his brows, and his beard, were shaggy.{003}     I ween on the whole he was aught but a Cupid,     And exceedingly fierce, and remarkably stupid;              His brain partaking stronglyof lead,              How well soe'er he was off for head;              Having frequently one or two              Crania more than I or you.              He was bare of arm and leg,              But buskins had, and aphilabeg;              Also a body-coat of mail              That shone with steel or brazen scale,              Like to the back of a crocodile's tail;                        A crown he wore,                        And a mace hebore              That was knobbed and spiked with adamant;                        It would smash the skull                        Of the mountain bull,              Or scatter the brains of the elephant.         His voice than the tempestwas louder and gruffer--         Well; so much for the uncouth "buffer."JACK'S BIRTH, PARENTAGE, EDUCATION, AND EARLY PURSUITS.               Of a right noble race was Jack,               For kith and kin he did notlack,                    Whom tuneful bards have puffed;               The Seven bold Champions ranked among               That highly celebrated throng,                    And Riquet with the Tuft.{004}          Jack of theBeanstalk, too, was one;          And Beauty's Beast; and Valour's son,              Sir Amadis de Gaul:          But if I had a thousand tongues,          A throat of brass, and iron lungs,              I could not sing themall.     His sire was a farmer hearty and free;     He dwelt where the Land's End frowns on the sea,     And the sea at the Land's End roars again,     Tit for tat, land and main.     He was a worthy wight, and so     Hebrought up his son in the way he should go;     He sought not--not he!--to make him a "muff;"     He never taught him a parcel of stuff;     He bothered him not with trees and plants,     Nor told him to study themanners of ants.     He himself had never been     Bored with the Saturday Magazine;     The world might be flat, or round, or square,     He knew not, and he did not care;     Nor wished that a boy of his should be     ACornish "Infant Prodigy."     But he stored his mind with learning stable,     The deeds of the Knights of the famed Round Table;     Legends and stories, chants and lays,     Of witches and warlocks, goblins andfays;             How champions of might             Defended the right,{005}     Freed the captive, and succoured the damsel distrest              Till Jack would exclaim--     "If I don't do the same,     An' I live to become aman,--_I'm blest!_"     Jack lightly recked of sport or play              Wherein young gentlemen delight,     But he would wrestle any day,     Box, or at backsword fight.     He was a lad of special "pluck,"     And strengthbeyond his years,          Or science, gave him aye the luck          To drub his young compeers.     His task assigned, like Giles or Hodge,     The woolly flocks to tend,          His wits to warlike fray or"dodge"          Wool-gathering oft would wend.     And then he'd wink his sparkling eye,     And nod his head right knowingly,         And sometimes "Won't I just!" would cry,         Or "At him, Bill, again!"          Now thisbehaviour did evince          A longing for a foe to mince;          An instinct fitter for a Prince          Than for a shepherd swain.{006}HOW JACK SLEW THE GIANT CORMORAN.---     I.          Where good Saint Michael'scraggy mount          Rose Venus-like from out the sea,          A giant dwelt; a mighty- Count          In his own view, forsooth, was he;          And not unlike one, verily,          (A foreign Count, like those wemeet          In Leicester Square, or Regent Street),          I mean with respect to his style of hair,          Mustachios, and beard, and ferocious air,--          His figure was quite another affair.         This odd-looking"bird"         Was a Richard the Third,         Four times taller and five as wide;         Or a clumsy Punch,         With his cudgel and hunch,              Into a monster magnified!     In quest of prey across the sea     He'dwade, with ponderous club;              For not the slightest "bones" made he              Of "boning" people's "grub."     There was screaming and crying "Oh dear!" and "Oh law     When the terrified maids the monstersaw;[Illustration: 019]{007}                 As he stalked--tramp! tramp!                 Stamp! stamp! stamp! stamp!         Coming on like the statue in "Don Giovanni."                 "Oh my!" they would cry,                  "Herehe comes; let us fly!         Did you ever behold such a horrid old brawny? --                 A--h!" and off they would run                 Like "blazes," or "fun,"         Followed, pell-mell, by man and master;                 Whilethe grisly old fellow                 Would after them bellow,         To make them scamper away the faster.     II.          When this mountain bugaboo          Had filled his belly, what would he do?          He'd shoulder hisclub with an ox or two,          Stick pigs and sheep in his belt a few,--     There were two or three in it, and two or three under     (I hope ye have all the "organ of wonder");     Then back again to his mountaincave     He would stump o'er the dry land and stride through the wave.     III.                     What was to be done?                     For this was no fun;                 And it must be clear to every one,          The new Tariffitself would assuredly not          Have supplied much longer the monstrous pot                 Of this beef-eating, bull-headed, "son-of-a-gun."{008}     IV.     Upon a night as dark as pitch     A light was dancing on thesea;--     Marked it the track of the Water Witch?     Could it a Jack-a-lantern be?     A lantern it was, and borne by Jack;     A spade and a pickaxe he had at his back;     In his belt a good cow-horn;     He was up tosome game you may safely be sworn.     Saint Michael's Mount he quickly gained,     And there the livelong night remained.                What he did                The darkness hid;     Nor needeth it that I shouldsay:     Nor would you have seen,     If there you had been     Looking on at the break of day.     V.     Morning dawned on the ocean blue;     Shrieked the gull and the wild sea-mew;     The donkey brayed, and the greycock crew;     Jack put to his mouth his good cow-horn,     And a blast therewith did blow.     The Giant heard the note of scorn,     And woke and cried "Hallo!"     He popped out his head with his night-cap on,     Tolook who his friend might be,     And eke his spectacles did don,     That he mote the better see.[Illustration: 023]{009}     "I'll broil thee for breakfast," he roared amain,     "For breaking my repose."     "Yaa!" valiantJack returned again,     With his fingers at his nose.     VI.     Forward the monster tramps apace,     Like to an elephant running a race;     Like a walking-stick he handles his mace.     Away, too venturous wight,decamp!     In two more strides your skull he smashes;--     One! Gracious goodness! what a stamp!     Two! Ha! the plain beneath him crashes:     Down he goes, full fathoms three.     "How feel ye now," cried Jack,"old chap?     It is plain, I wot, to see     You 're by no means up to trap."     The Giant answered with such a roar,     It was like the Atlantic at war with its shore;     A thousand times worse than the hullaballoo     Ofcarnivora, fed,     Ere going to bed,     At the Regent's Park, or the Surrey "Zoo."     "So ho! Sir Giant," said Jack, with a bow,     "Of breakfast art thou fain?     For a tit-bit wilt thou broil me now,     An' I let thee outagain? "     Gnashing his teeth, and rolling his eyes,     The furious lubber strives to rise.     "Don't you wish you may get it?" our hero cries{010}[Illustration: 027]       And he drives the pickaxe into hisskull:       Giving him thus a belly-full,                        If the expression is n't a bull.     VII.                    Old Cormoran dead,                       Jack cut off his head,       And hired a boat to transport ithome.                    On the "bumps" of the brute,       At the Institute,       A lecture was read by a Mr. Combe.         Their Worships, the Justices of the Peace,         Called the death of the monster a "happyrelease:"         Sent for the champion who had drubbed him,         And "Jack the Giant Killer" dubbed him;         And they gave him a sword, and a baldric, whereon         For all who could read them, these versiclesshone:--            'THIS IS YE VALYANT CORNISHE MAN            WHO SLEWE YE GIANT CORMORAN"{011}[Illustration: 028]JACK SUPRISED ONCE IN THE WAY     I.     Now, as Jack was a lion, and hero ofrhymes,     His exploit very soon made a noise in the "Times;"              All over the west              He was _fÃªted_, caressed,     And to dinners and _soirees_ eternally pressed:     Though't is true Giants did n't movemuch in society,     And at "twigging" were slow,     Yet they could n't but know     Of a thing that was matter of such notoriety.     Your Giants were famous for _esprit de corps_;     And a huge one, whose name wasO'Blunderbore,     From the Emerald Isle, who had waded o'er,     Revenge, "by the pow'rs!" on our hero swore.     II.              Sound beneath a forest oak              Was a beardless warrior dozing,              By ababbling rill, that woke              Echo--not the youth reposing.              What a chance for lady loves              Now to win a "pair of gloves!"{012}     III.     "Wake, champion, wake, be off, be off;     Heard'st thou notthat earthquake cough!     That floundering splash,     That thundering crash?     Awake!--oh, no,                It is no go!"        So sang a little woodland fairy;                'T was O'Blunderbore coming        And theblackguard was humming        The tune of "Paddy Carey."[Illustration: 030]     IV.     Beholding the sleeper,     He open'd each peeper     To about the size of the crown of your hat;     "Oh, oh!" says he,                  "Isit clear I see     Hallo! ye young spalpeen, come out o' that."                 So he took him up                 As ye mote a pup,     Or an impudent varlet about to "pop" him:     "Wake up, ye young baste;                 What'sthis round your waist?     Och! murder! "--I wonder he did n't drop him.     He might, to be sure, have exclaimed "Oh, Law!"     But then he preferred his own _patois_;     And "Murder!" though coarse, was expressive,no doubt,     Inasmuch as the murder was certainly out.     He had pounced upon Jack,               In his cosy bivouack,     And so he made off with him over his back.{013}     V.             Still was Jack in slumbersunk;             Was he Mesmerised or drunk?      I know not in sooth, but he did not awake      Till, borne through a coppice of briar and brake,      He was roused by the brambles that tore his skin,      Then he woke upand found what a mess he was in      He spoke not a word that his fear might shew,      But said to himself--"What a precious go!"     VI.              Whither was the hero bound,              Napping by the Ogrecaught?              Unto Cambrian Taffy's ground              Where adventures fresh he sought.     VII.      They gained the Giant's castle hall,          Which seemed a sort of Guy's museum;      With skulls and bones 'twascrowded all--          You would have blessed yourself to see 'em.      The larder was stored with human hearts,      Quarters, and limbs, and other parts,--           A grisly sight to see;      There Jack the cannibal monsterled,      "I lave you there, my lad," he said,          "To larn anatomy!--[Illustration: 033]{014}         I'm partial to this kind of mate,         And hearts with salt and spice to ate         Is just what plases me;         I maneto night on yours to sup,         Stay here until you 're aten up         He spoke, and turned the key.     "A pretty business this!" quoth Jack,          When he was left alone;     "Old Paddy Whack,          I say! comeback--     I wonder where he's gone?"[Illustration: 035]{015}      In ghastly moans and sounds of wail,      The castle's cells replied;      Jack, whose high spirits ne'er could quail,      Whistled like blackbird in thevale,      And, "Bravo, Weber!" cried.      When, lo! a dismal voice, in verse,      This pleasant warning did rehearse:--                                       See Page image: ==> {015}     IX.      "Haste!" quoth the hero, "yes, buthow?      They come, the brutes!--I hear them now.'      He flew to the window with mickle speed,      There was the pretty pair indeed,      Arm-in-arm in the court below,      O'Blunderbore and his brother O.      "Nowthen," thought Jack, "I plainly see      I 'm booked for death or liberty;--      Hallo! those cords are 'the jockeys for me.'     X.     Jack was nimble of finger and thumb--     The cords in a moment have haltersbecome{016}         Deft at noosing the speckled trout,         So hath he caught each ill-favoured lout:         He hath tethered the ropes to a rafter tight,         And he tugs and he pulls with all his might,         "Pully-oi!Pully-oi!" till each Yahoo         In the face is black and blue;     Till each Paddy Whack     Is blue and black;     "Now, I think you're done _brown_," said courageous Jack.     Down the tight rope he slides,     And his goodsword hides     In the hearts of the monsters up to the hilt;     So he settled them each:     O'Blunderbore's speech,     Ere he gave up the ghost was, "Och, murder, I'm kilt!"     XI.         The dungeons are burst and thecaptives freed;     Three princesses were among them found--         Very beautiful indeed;     Their lily white hands were behind them bound:         They were dangling in the air,     Strung up to a hook by their dear"back hair."     Their stomachs too weak     On bubble and squeak,     From their slaughtered lords prepared, to dine                (A delicate rarity);     With horrid barbarity,     The Giants had hung them up there topine.[Illustration: 039]{017}     XII.     Jack, the monsters having "licked,"     Had, of course, their pockets picked,     And their keys and eke their riches     Had abstracted from their breeches.     "Ladies," he said, witha Chesterfield's ease,     Permit me, I pray you, to present you with these,"     And he placed in their hands the coin and the keys:     "So long having swung,     By your poor tresses hung,     Sure your nerves areunhinged though yourselves are unstrung;               To make you amends,     Take these few odds and ends,     This nice little castle, I mean, and its wealth;               And I 've only to say,     That I hope that youmay     For the future enjoy the most excellent health."     Said the ladies--"Oh, thank you!--expressions we lack "--     "Don't mention it pray," said the complaisant Jack.     XIII.     Jack knelt and kissed the snow-whitehands              Of the lovely ladies three;     Oh! who these matters that understands              But thinks, "would that I'd been he! "     Then he bids them adieu; "Au revoir," they cry.     "Take care of yourselves," heexclaims, "good bye!"{018}     XIV.     Away, like Bonaparte in chase,         O'er mount and moor goes Jack;     With his trusty sword before his face,         And its scabbard behind his back.              Away hegoes,              And follows his nose;     No wonder, then, that at close of day,              He found himself out              In his whereabout;--     "Dash my buttons," he cried, "I have lost my way     Before him stretched alonely vale--     Just the place for robbing the mail     Ere that conveyance went by "rail"--     On either side a mount of granite     Outfaced indignant star and planet;     Its thunder-braving head and shoulders,     Andthreatening crags, and monstrous boulders,         Ten times as high as the cliffs at Brighton,         Uprearing like a "bumptious" Titan,     Very imposing to beholders.     Now the red sun went darkly down,     Moregloomy grew the mountains' frown,     And all around waxed deeper brown,--     Jack's visage deeper blue;     Said he, "I guess I'm in a fix,"--     Using a phrase of Mr. Slick's,--     "What _on_ earth shall Ido?"{019}     He wandered about till late at night,     At last he made for a distant light;     "Here's a gentleman's mansion," thought Jack, "all right."              He knocked at the wicket,              Crying, "That's theticket!"     When lo! the portal open flew,              And a monster came out,              Enormously stout     And of stature tremendous, with heads for two.              Jack was rather alarmed,              But the Giant wascharmed,     He declared with both tongues, the young hero to see:              "What a double-tongued speech!              But you wo n't overreach     _Me_" thought Jack; as the Giant said--"Walk in, to tea."     But hesaw that to fly     Would be quite "all his eye,"               He could n't, and so it was useless to try;     So he bowed, and complied with the monster's "walk in!"     With a sort of a kind of hysterical grin.     Now this Giant,you know, was a Welshman, _and so_,     'T was by stealth he indulged in each mischievous "lark              His name was Ap Morgan,              He had a large organ     Of "secretiveness," wherefore he killed in thedark.     "He was sorry that Jack was benighted," he said,     "Might he fenture to peg he'd accept of a ped?"{020}              And he then led the way,              All smiling and gay,     To the couch where his guest mightrest his head;     And he bade him good night, politely quite,     Jack answered--"I wish you a very good night."     XV.     Though his eyes were heavy, and legs did ache,     Jack was far too wide awake     To trusthimself to the arms of sleep;--     I mean to say he was much too deep.     Stumping, through the midnight gloom,     Up and down in the neighbouring room,     Like a pavior's rammer, Ap Morgan goes.     "I shouldn'tmuch like him to tread on my toes!"     Thought Jack as he listened with mind perplexed;--     "I wonder what he's up to next?"     XVI.     Short was our hero's marvelling;              For, deeming him in slumberlocked,     The monstrous oaf began to sing:              Gracious, how the timbers rocked!                     From double throat                     He poured each note,               So his voice was a species of doublebass,                       Slightly hoarse,     Rather coarse,{021}      And decidedly wanting _a little_ in grace:      A circumstance which unluckily smashes      A comparison I was about to make      Between it and thegreat Lablache's,--           Just for an allusion's sake.      Thus warbled the gigantic host,      To the well-known air of "Giles Scroggins' Ghost:                                           See Page Image: ==> {021}     XVII.      "Ha!say you so,"      Thought Jack; "oh, oh! "      And, getting out of bed,      He found a log;--      "Whack that, old Gog!      He whispered, "in my stead."     XVIII.      In steals the Giant, crafty old fox!      His buskins he'ddoffed, and he walked in his socks,      And he fetches the bed some tremendous knocks      With his great big mace,                 I' th' identical place      Where Jack's wooden substitute quietly lay;      And, chuckling ashe went away,      He said to himself, "How. Griffith Ap Jones      Will laugh when he hears that I've broken his bones![Illustration: 045]{022}     XIX.     The morning shone brightly, all nature was gay;     And the Giant


ï»¿Project Gutenberg's Border, Breed Nor Birth, by Dallas McCord ReynoldsThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use itunder the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.orgTitle: Border, Breed Nor BirthAuthor: Dallas McCord ReynoldsIllustrator: SchoenherrRelease Date: December 9,2009 [EBook #30639]Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BORDER, BREED NOR BIRTH ***Produced by Sankar Viswanathan, Greg Weeks, and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Teamat http://www.pgdp.net                         Transcriber's Note:  This etext was produced from Analog Science Fact & Fiction July 1962.  Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.  copyright on thispublication was renewed.                       Border, Breed nor Birth     Part 1 of Two. Kipling said those things didn't count when     two strong men stood face to face. But ... do they count     when two strong ideologiesstand face to face...?                           by Mack Reynolds                      Illustrated by Schoenherr       *       *       *       *       *IEl Hassan, would-be tyrant of all North Africa, was on the run.His followers at this pointnumbered six, one of whom was a wisp of atwenty-four year old girl. Arrayed against him and his dream, he knew,was the combined power of the world in the form of the ReunitedNations, and, in addition, suchindividual powers as the United Statesof the Americas, the Soviet Complex, Common Europe, the FrenchCommunity, the British Commonwealth and the Arab Union, working bothtogether and unilaterally.Immediatesurvival depended upon getting into the Great Erg of theSahara where even the greatest powers the world had ever developedwould have their work cut out locating El Hassan and hispeople.       *       *       *       *       *Bey-ag-Akhamouk who was riding next to Elmer Allen in the lead aircushion hover-lorry, held a hand high. Both of the solar powereddesert vehicles ground to a halt.HomerCrawford vaulted out of the seat of the second lorry before ithad settled to the sand. "What's up, Bey?" he called.Bey pointed to the south and west. They were in the vicinity ofTessalit, in what was once known asFrench Sudan, and immediately tothe south of Algeria. They were deliberately avoiding what littleexisted in this area in the way of trails, the Tanezrouft route whichcrossed the Sahara from Colomb-BÃ©char to Gao, onthe Niger, was somefifty miles to the west.Homer Crawford stared up into the sky in the direction Bey pointed andhis face went wan.The others were piling out of the vehicles."What is it?" Isobel Cunningham said,squinting and trying to catchwhat the others had already spotted."Aircraft," Bey growled. "A rocket-plane.""Which means the military in this part of the world," Homer said.The rest of them looked to him for instructions,but Bey suddenly tookover. He said to Homer, "You better get on over beneath thatoutcropping of rock. The rest of us will handle this."Homer looked at him.Bey said, flatly, "If one of the rest of us gets it, or even if allofus do, the El Hassan movement goes on. But if something happens toyou, the movement dies. We've already taken our stand and too much isat stake to risk your life."Homer Crawford opened his mouth to protest,then closed it. He reachedinside the solar-powered lorry and fetched forth a Tommy-Noiseless andstarted for the rock outcropping at a trot. Having made his decision,he wasn't going to cramp Bey-ag-Akhamouk's stylewith needlesspalaver.Isobel Cunningham, Cliff Jackson, Elmer Allen and Kenny Ballalougathered around the tall, American educated Tuareg."What's the plan?" Elmer said. Either he or Kenny Ballalou could havetakenover as competently, but they were as capable of taking ordersas giving them, a desirable trait in fighting men.Bey was still staring at the oncoming speck. He growled, "We can'teven hope he hasn't seen the pillars ofsand and dust these vehiclesthrow up. He's spotted us all right. And we've got to figure he'slooking for us, even though we can hope he's not."The side of his mouth began to tic, characteristically. "He'll makethreepasses. The first one high, as an initial check. The second timehe'll come in low just to make sure. The third pass and he'll clobberus."The aircraft was coming on, high but nearer now."So," Elmer said reasonably, "weeither get him the second pass hemakes, or we've had it." The young Jamaican's lips were thinned backover his excellent teeth, as always when he went into combat."That's it," Bey agreed. "Kenny, you and Cliff get theflac rifle, andhave it handy in the back of the second truck. Be sure he doesn't seeit on this first pass. Elmer, get on the radio and check anything hesends."Kenny Ballalou and the hulking Cliff Jackson ran to carry outorders.Isobel said, "Got an extra gun for me?"Bey scowled at her. "You better get over there with Homer where it'ssafer."She said evenly, "I've always considered myself a pacifist, but whensomebody starts shooting atme, I forget about it and am inclined toshoot back.""I haven't got time to argue with you," Bey said. "There aren't anyextra guns except handguns and they'd be useless." As he spoke, hepulled his ownTommy-Noiseless from its scabbard on the front door ofthe air cushion lorry, and checked its clip of two hundred .10 caliberultra-high velocity rounds. He flicked the selector to the explosiveside of theclip.       *       *       *       *       *The plane was roaring in on what would be its first pass, if Bey hadguessed correctly. If he had guessed incorrectly, this might be theend. A charge of napalm would fry everything for aquarter of a milearound, or the craft might even be equipped with a mini-fission bomb.In this area a minor nuclear explosion would probably go undetected.Bey yelled, "Don't anybody even try to fire at him at thisrange.He'll be back. It takes half the sky to turn around in with thatcrate, but he'll be back, lower next time."Cliff Jackson said cheerlessly, "Maybe he's just looking for us. Hewon't necessarily take a crack at us."Beygrunted. "Elmer?""Nothing on the radio," Elmer said. "If he was just scouting us out,he'd report to his base. But if his orders are to clobber us, then hewouldn't put it on the air."The plane was turning in the sky, comingback.Cliff argued, "Well, we can't fire unless we know if he's just huntingus out, or trying to do us in."Elmer said patiently, "For just finding us, that first pass would beall he needed. He could radio back that he'd foundus. But if he comesin again, he's looking for trouble.""Here he comes!" Bey yelled. "Kenny-Cliff ... the rifle!"Isobel suddenly dashed out into the sands a dozen yards or so from thevehicles and began running around andaround in a circle as thoughdemented.Bey stared at her. "Get back here," he roared. "Under one of thetrucks!"She ignored him.The rocket-plane was coming in, low and obviously as slow as the pilotcould retard itsspeed.The flac rifle began jumping and tracers reached out fromit--inaccurately. The Tommy-Noiseless automatics in the hands of Beyand Elmer Allen gave their silenced _flic flic flic_ sounds, equallyineffective.On theultra-stubby wings of the fast moving aircraft, a row ofbrilliant cherries flickered and a row of explosive shells plowedacross the desert, digging twin ditches, miraculously going betweenthe air cushion lorries but missingboth. It was upon them, over andgone, before the men on the ground could turn to fire after.Elmer Allen muttered an obscenity under his breath.Cliff Jackson looked around in desperation. "What can we do now?Hewon't come close enough for us to even fire at him, next time."Bey said nothing. Isobel had collapsed into the sand. Elmer Allenlooked over at her. "Nice try, Isobel," he said. "I think he came inlower and slower thanhe would have otherwise--trying to see what thedevil it was you were doing."She shrugged, hopelessly."Hey!" Kenny Ballalou pointed.The rocketcraft was wobbling, shuddering, in the sky. Suddenly itburst into a blackcloud of fire and smoke and explosion.At the same moment, Homer Crawford got up from the sand dune behindwhich he'd stationed himself and plowed awkwardly through the sandtoward them.Bey glared athim.Homer shrugged and said, "I checked the way he came in the first timeand figured he'd repeat the run. Then I got behind that dune there andfaced in the other direction and started firing where I _thought_ he'dbe,a few seconds before he came over. He evidently ran right intoit."Bey said indignantly, "Look, wise guy, you're no longer the leader ofa five-man Reunited Nations African Development Project team. Then,you wereexpendable. Now, you're El Hassan. You give the orders. Otherpeople are expendable."Homer Crawford grinned at him, somewhat ruefully and held up his handsas though in supplication. "Listen to the man, is that anyway to talkto El Hassan?"Elmer Allen said worriedly, "He's right, though, Homer. You shouldn'ttake chances."Homer Crawford went serious. "Actually, none of us should, if we canavoid it. In a way, El Hassan isn't oneperson. It's this team here,and Jake Armstrong, who by this time I hope is on his way to theStates."Bey was shaking his head in stubborn determination. "No," he said."I'm not sure that you comprehend this yourself,Homer, but you'reNumber One. You're the symbol, the hero these people are going tofollow if we put this thing over. They couldn't understand a sextetleadership. They want a leader, someone to dominate and tellthem whatto do. A team you need, admittedly, but not so much as the team needsyou. Remember Alexander? He had a team starting off with Aristotle fora brain-trust, and Parmenion, one of the greatest generals of alltimefor his right-hand man. Then he had a group of field men such asPtolemy, Antipater, Antigonus and Seleucus--not to be rivaled untilNapoleon built his team, two thousand years later. And what happenedto thissuper-team when Alexander died?"Homer looked at him thoughtfully.Bey wound it up doggedly. "You're our Alexander. Our Caesar. OurNapoleon. So don't go getting yourself killed, damn it. Excuse me,Isobel."Isobelgrinned her pixielike grin. "I agree," she said. "Dammit."Homer said, "I'm not sure I go all along with you or not. We'll thinkabout it." His voice took a sharper note. "Let's go over and see ifthere's enough left in thatwreckage to give us an idea of who thepilot represented. I can't believe it was a Reunited Nations man, andI'd like to know who, of our potential enemies, dislikes the idea ofEl Hassan so much that they figure we shouldall be bumped off beforewe even get under way."       *       *       *       *       *It had begun--if there is ever a beginning--in Dakar. In the officesof Sven Zetterberg the Swedish head of the Sahara Division oftheAfrican Development Project of the Reunited Nations.Homer Crawford, head of a five-man trouble-shooting team, had reportedfor orders. In one hand he held them, when he was ushered into theother'spresence.Zetterberg shook hands abruptly, said, "Sit down, Dr. Crawford."Homer Crawford looked at the secretary who had ushered him in.Zetterberg said, scowling, "What's the matter?""I think I have something to bediscussed privately."The secretary shrugged and turned and left.Zetterberg, still scowling, resumed his own place behind the desk andsaid, "Claud Hansen is a trusted Reunited Nations man. What couldpossibly be sosecret...?"Homer indicated the orders he held. "This assignment. It takes someconsideration."Sven Zetterberg was not a patient man. He said, in irritation, "Itshould be perfectly clear. This El Hassan we've been hearingso muchabout. This mystery man come out of the desert attempting to unifyall North America. We want to talk to him.""Why?" Crawford said."Confound it," Zetterberg snapped. "I thought we'd gone into thisyesterday.In spite of the complaints that come into this office inregard to your cavalier tactics in carrying out your assignments, youand your team are our most competent operatives. So we've given youthe assignment of findingEl Hassan.""I mean, why do you want to talk to him?"The Swede glared at him for a moment, as though the American was beingdeliberately dense. "Dr. Crawford," he said, "when the AfricanDevelopment Project wasfirst begun we had high hopes. Seemingly allReunited Nations members were being motivated by high humanitarianreasons. Our task was to bring all Africa to a level of progresscomparable to the advanced nations. Itwas more than a duty, it was acrying need, a demand. Africa is and has been throughout history a_have-not_ continent. While Europe, the Americas, Australia and noweven Asia, industrialized and largely conqueredman's oldsocio-economic problems, Africa lagged behind. The reasons weremanifold, colonialism, lingering tribal society ... various others.Now that very lagging has become a potential explosive situation. Withthecoming of antibiotics and other break-throughs in medicine, theAfrican population is growing with an all but geometric progression.So fast is it growing, that what advances were being made did lessthan keep up thelevel of per capita gross product. It was bad enoughto have a per capita gross product averaging less than a hundreddollars a year, but it actually sank below that point."Homer Crawford was nodding.Zetterbergcontinued the basic lecture with which he knew the otherwas already completely familiar. "So the Reunited Nations took on thetask of advancing as rapidly as possible the African economy and allthe things that must bedone before an economy _can_ be advanced. Itwas self-preservation, I suppose. _Have-not_ nations, not to speak of_have-not_ races and _have-not_ continents, have a tendency eventuallyto explode upon theirwealthier neighbors."The Swede pressed his lips together before continuing. "Unfortunately,the Reunited Nations as the United Nations and the League of Nationsbefore it, is composed of members each with its ownirons in the fire.Each with its own plans and schemes." His voice was bitter now. "TheArab Union with its desire to unite all Islam into one. The SovietComplex with its ultimate dream of a soviet world. Thecapitalisticeconomies of the British Commonwealth, Common Europe, and your UnitedStates of the Americas, with their hunger for, positive need for,sources of raw materials and markets for their manufacturedproducts.All, though playing lip service to the African Development Project,have still their own ambitions."Sven Zetterberg waggled a finger at Homer Crawford. "I do not chargethat your United States is attempting totake over Africa, or even anysection of it, in the old colonialistic sense. Even England and Francehave discovered that it is much simpler to dominate economically thanto go through all the expense and effort ofgoverning another people.That is the basic reason they gave up their empires. No, your UnitedStates would love to so dominate Africa that her products, herentrepreneurs, would flood the continent to the virtualexclusion ofsuch economic competitors as Common Europe. The Commonwealth feels thesame, so does the French Community. The Soviets and Arabs havedifferent motivations, but they, too, wish to take over.Theresult...." The Swede tossed up his hands in a gesture more Gallicthan Scandinavian.       *       *       *       *       *"What has all this got to do with El Hassan?" Homer Crawford askedsoftly.The Swede leanedforward. "If we more devoted adherents of theReunited Nations are ever to see our hopes come true, Africa must beunited and made strong. And this must be done through the efforts of_Africans_ not Russians, British,French, Arabs ... nor evenScandinavians. Socio-economic changes should not, possibly cannot, beinflicted upon a people from without. Look at the mess the Russiansmade in such countries as Hungary, or theAmericans in such as SouthKorea.""The people themselves must have the dream," Crawford said softly."I beg your pardon?""Nothing. Go on."Zetterberg said, "On the surface, great progress seems to becontinuing.Afforestation of the Sahara, the solar pumps creating newoases, the water purification plants on the Atlantic andMediterranean, pushing back the desert, the oil fields, the mines, theroads, the damming of the Niger. Butalready cracks can be seen. Aweek or so ago, a team of Cubans, supposedly, at least, in the Sudanto improve sugar refining methods, were machine-gunned to death. Bywhom? By the Sudanese? Unlikely. No, thisCuban massacre was one ofmany recent signs of conflict between the great powers in theirefforts to dominate. Our problem, of course, deals only with NorthAfrica, but I have heard rumors in Geneva that much thesame situationis developing in the south as well.""At any rate, Dr. Crawford, when the rumors of El Hassan began to comeinto this office they brought with them a breath of hope. From all wehave heard, he teaches ourbasic program--a breaking down of oldtribal society, education, economic progress, Pan-African unity. Dr.Crawford, no one with whom this office is connected seems ever to haveseen this El Hassan but we are mostanxious to talk to him. Perhapsthis is the man behind whom we can throw our support. Your task is tofind him."Homer Crawford raked the fingers of his right hand back over hisshort wiry hair, and grimaced. He said, "Itwon't be necessary."[Illustration]"I beg your pardon, Doctor?"Crawford said, "It won't be necessary to go looking for El Hassan."The Swede scowled his irritation at the other. "See here...."Crawford said, "I'm ElHassan."Sven Zetterberg stared at him, uncomprehending.Homer Crawford said, "I suppose it's your turn to listen and for meto do the talking." He shifted in his chair, uncomfortably. "Dr.Zetterberg, even before theReunited Nations evolved the idea of theAfrican Development Project, it became obvious that the field work wasgoing to have to be in the hands of Negroes. The reason is doublefold.First, the African doesn't trust thewhite man, for good reason.Second, the white man is a citizen of his own country, first of all,and finds it difficult not to have motives connected with his own raceand nation. But the African Negro, too, has his tribal andsometimesnational affiliations and cannot be trusted not to be prejudiced intheir favor. The answer? The educated American Negro, such as myself.""I haven't the slightest idea from whence came my ancestors, fromwhatpart of Africa, what tribe, what nation. But I am a Negro and ...well, have the dream of bettering my race. I have no irons in thefire, beyond altruistic ones. Of course, when I say American Negroes Idon't excludeCanadian ones, or those of Latin America or theCaribbean. It is simply that there are greater numbers of educatedAmerican Negroes than you find elsewhere."Zetterberg said impatiently, "Please, Dr. Crawford. Come tothe point.That ridiculous statement you made about El Hassan.""Of course, I am merely giving background. Most of we field workers,not only the African Development teams, but such organizations as theAfrica forAfricans Association and the representatives of the AfricanDepartment of the British Commonwealth, and of the French Community'sAfrican Affairs sector, are composed of Negroes."Zetterberg was nodding. "All right, Iknow."Homer Crawford said, "The teams of all these organizations do theirbest to spur African progress, in our case, in North Africa,especially the area between the Niger and the Mediterranean. Often wedisguiseourselves as natives since in that manner we are more quicklytrusted. We wear the clothes, speak the local language or linguafranca."The American hesitated a moment, then plunged in. "Dr. Zetterberg, theAfrican isstill a primitive but newly beginning to move out of atradition-ritual-taboo tribal society. He seeks a hero to follow, aman of towering prestige who knows the answers to all questions. Wemay not _like_ this fact, we withour traditions of democracy, but itis so. The African is simply not yet at that stage of society wherepolitical democracy is applicable.""My team does most of its work posing as Enaden--low caste itinerantsmiths of theSahara. As such we can go any place and are everywhereaccepted, a necessary sector of the Saharan economy. As such, wecontinually spread the ... ah, propaganda of the Reunited Nations--theneed for education, theneed for taking jobs on the new projects, theneed for casting aside old institutions and embracing the new. Earlyin the game we found our words had little weight coming from simpleEnaden smiths so we ... well,_invented_ this mysterious El Hassan,and everything we said we attributed to him.""News spreads fast in the desert, astonishingly fast. El Hassanstarted with us but soon other teams, hearing about him andrealizingthat his message was the same as that they were trying to propagate,did the same thing. That is, attributed the messages they had tospread to El Hassan. It was amusing when a group of us got togetherlast


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of Zuleika Dobson, by Max BeerbohmThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use it underthe terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.orgTitle: Zuleika Dobson       or, An Oxford Love StoryAuthor: Max BeerbohmPosting Date: November 25, 2008 [EBook#1845]Release Date: August, 1999Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ZULEIKA DOBSON ***Produced by Judy BossZULEIKA DOBSONor, AN OXFORD LOVE STORYBy MaxBeerbohm         NOTE to the 1922 edition         I was in Italy when this book was first published.         A year later (1912) I visited London, and I found         that most of my friends and acquaintances spoketo         me of Zu-like-a--a name which I hardly recognised         and thoroughly disapproved. I had always thought         of the lady as Zu-leek-a. Surely it was thus that         Joseph thought of his Wife, and Selim ofhis Bride?         And I do hope that it is thus that any reader of         these pages will think of Miss Dobson.                                              M.B.                                              Rapallo, 1922.ILLI ALMAE MATRIZULEIKADOBSONIThat old bell, presage of a train, had just sounded through Oxfordstation; and the undergraduates who were waiting there, gay figures intweed or flannel, moved to the margin of the platform and gazed idlyupthe line. Young and careless, in the glow of the afternoon sunshine,they struck a sharp note of incongruity with the worn boards they stoodon, with the fading signals and grey eternal walls of that antiquestation, which,familiar to them and insignificant, does yet whisper tothe tourist the last enchantments of the Middle Age.At the door of the first-class waiting-room, aloof and venerable, stoodthe Warden of Judas. An ebon pillar oftradition seemed he, in his garbof old-fashioned cleric. Aloft, between the wide brim of his silk hatand the white extent of his shirt-front, appeared those eyes whichhawks, that nose which eagles, had often envied. Hesupported his yearson an ebon stick. He alone was worthy of the background.Came a whistle from the distance. The breast of an engine was descried,and a long train curving after it, under a flight of smoke. It grewandgrew. Louder and louder, its noise foreran it. It became a furious,enormous monster, and, with an instinct for safety, all men recededfrom the platform's margin. (Yet came there with it, unknown to them,a danger farmore terrible than itself.) Into the station it cameblustering, with cloud and clangour. Ere it had yet stopped, the door ofone carriage flew open, and from it, in a white travelling dress, in atoque a-twinkle with finediamonds, a lithe and radiant creature slippednimbly down to the platform.A cynosure indeed! A hundred eyes were fixed on her, and half as manyhearts lost to her. The Warden of Judas himself had mounted on hisnosea pair of black-rimmed glasses. Him espying, the nymph darted in hisdirection. The throng made way for her. She was at his side."Grandpapa!" she cried, and kissed the old man on either cheek. (Not ayouth therebut would have bartered fifty years of his future for thatsalute.)"My dear Zuleika," he said, "welcome to Oxford! Have you no luggage?""Heaps!" she answered. "And a maid who will find it.""Then," said the Warden, "letus drive straight to College." He offeredher his arm, and they proceeded slowly to the entrance. She chattedgaily, blushing not in the long avenue of eyes she passed through. Allthe youths, under her spell, were nowquite oblivious of the relativesthey had come to meet. Parents, sisters, cousins, ran unclaimed aboutthe platform. Undutiful, all the youths were forming a serried suite totheir enchantress. In silence they followed her.They saw her leap intothe Warden's landau, they saw the Warden seat himself upon her left. Norwas it until the landau was lost to sight that they turned--how slowly,and with how bad a grace!--to look for theirrelatives.Through those slums which connect Oxford with the world, the landaurolled on towards Judas. Not many youths occurred, for nearly all--itwas the Monday of Eights Week--were down by the river, cheeringthecrews. There did, however, come spurring by, on a polo-pony, a verysplendid youth. His straw hat was encircled with a riband of blue andwhite, and he raised it to the Warden."That," said the Warden, "is the Duke ofDorset, a member of my College.He dines at my table to-night."Zuleika, turning to regard his Grace, saw that he had not reined in andwas not even glancing back at her over his shoulder. She gave a littlestart ofdismay, but scarcely had her lips pouted ere they curved to asmile--a smile with no malice in its corners.As the landau rolled into "the Corn," another youth--a pedestrian, andvery different--saluted the Warden. Hewore a black jacket, rusty andamorphous. His trousers were too short, and he himself was too short:almost a dwarf. His face was as plain as his gait was undistinguished.He squinted behind spectacles."And who isthat?" asked Zuleika.A deep flush overspread the cheek of the Warden. "That," he said, "isalso a member of Judas. His name, I believe, is Noaks.""Is he dining with us to-night?" asked Zuleika."Certainly not," said theWarden. "Most decidedly not."Noaks, unlike the Duke, had stopped for an ardent retrospect. He gazedtill the landau was out of his short sight; then, sighing, resumed hissolitary walk.The landau was rolling into "theBroad," over that ground which had onceblackened under the fagots lit for Latimer and Ridley. It rolled pastthe portals of Balliol and of Trinity, past the Ashmolean. From thosepedestals which intersperse the railing ofthe Sheldonian, the highgrim busts of the Roman Emperors stared down at the fair stranger inthe equipage. Zuleika returned their stare with but a casual glance. Theinanimate had little charm for her.A moment later, acertain old don emerged from Blackwell's, where he hadbeen buying books. Looking across the road, he saw, to his amazement,great beads of perspiration glistening on the brows of those Emperors.He trembled, andhurried away. That evening, in Common Room, he toldwhat he had seen; and no amount of polite scepticism would convince himthat it was but the hallucination of one who had been reading too muchMommsen. Hepersisted that he had seen what he described. It was notuntil two days had elapsed that some credence was accorded him.Yes, as the landau rolled by, sweat started from the brows of theEmperors. They, at least,foresaw the peril that was overhanging Oxford,and they gave such warning as they could. Let that be remembered totheir credit. Let that incline us to think more gently of them. In theirlives we know, they wereinfamous, some of them--"nihil non commiseruntstupri, saevitiae, impietatis." But are they too little punished, afterall? Here in Oxford, exposed eternally and inexorably to heat and frost,to the four winds that lash themand the rains that wear them away, theyare expiating, in effigy, the abominations of their pride and crueltyand lust. Who were lechers, they are without bodies; who were tyrants,they are crowned never but withcrowns of snow; who made themselves evenwith the gods, they are by American visitors frequently mistaken forthe Twelve Apostles. It is but a little way down the road that the twoBishops perished for their faith, andeven now we do never pass the spotwithout a tear for them. Yet how quickly they died in the flames! Tothese Emperors, for whom none weeps, time will give no surcease. Surely,it is sign of some grace in them thatthey rejoiced not, this brightafternoon, in the evil that was to befall the city of their penance.IIThe sun streamed through the bay-window of a "best" bedroom in theWarden's house, and glorified the palecrayon-portraits on the wall,the dimity curtains, the old fresh chintz. He invaded the many trunkswhich--all painted Z. D.--gaped, in various stages of excavation, aroundthe room. The doors of the huge wardrobe stood,like the doors ofJanus' temple in time of war, majestically open; and the sun seized thisopportunity of exploring the mahogany recesses. But the carpet, whichhad faded under his immemorial visitations, was nowalmost ENTIRELYhidden from him, hidden under layers of fair fine linen, layers ofsilk, brocade, satin, chiffon, muslin. All the colours of the rainbow,materialised by modistes, were there. Stacked on chairs were I knownotwhat of sachets, glove-cases, fan-cases. There were innumerable packagesin silver-paper and pink ribands. There was a pyramid of bandboxes.There was a virgin forest of boot-trees. And rustling quickly hitherandthither, in and out of this profusion, with armfuls of finery, was anobviously French maid. Alert, unerring, like a swallow she dipped anddarted. Nothing escaped her, and she never rested. She had the air ofthe bornunpacker--swift and firm, yet withal tender. Scarce had herarms been laden but their loads were lying lightly between shelves ortightly in drawers. To calculate, catch, distribute, seemed in her but asingle process. Shewas one of those who are born to make chaos cosmic.Insomuch that ere the loud chapel-clock tolled another hour all thetrunks had been sent empty away. The carpet was unflecked by any scrapof silver-paper. Fromthe mantelpiece, photographs of Zuleika surveyedthe room with a possessive air. Zuleika's pincushion, a-bristle withnew pins, lay on the dimity-flounced toilet-table, and round it stooda multitude of multiform glassvessels, domed, all of them, with dullgold, on which Z. D., in zianites and diamonds, was encrusted. Ona small table stood a great casket of malachite, initialled in likefashion. On another small table stood Zuleika'slibrary. Both books werein covers of dull gold. On the back of one cover BRADSHAW, in beryls,was encrusted; on the back of the other, A.B.C. GUIDE, in amethysts,beryls, chrysoprases, and garnets. And Zuleika's greatcheval-glassstood ready to reflect her. Always it travelled with her, in a greatcase specially made for it. It was framed in ivory, and of fluted ivorywere the slim columns it swung between. Of gold were its twinsconces,and four tall tapers stood in each of them.The door opened, and the Warden, with hospitable words, left hisgrand-daughter at the threshold.Zuleika wandered to her mirror. "Undress me, Melisande," she said.Likeall who are wont to appear by night before the public, she had the habitof resting towards sunset.Presently Melisande withdrew. Her mistress, in a white peignoir tiedwith a blue sash, lay in a great chintz chair,gazing out of thebay-window. The quadrangle below was very beautiful, with its walls ofrugged grey, its cloisters, its grass carpet. But to her it was of nomore interest than if it had been the rattling court-yard to oneofthose hotels in which she spent her life. She saw it, but heeded it not.She seemed to be thinking of herself, or of something she desired, or ofsome one she had never met. There was ennui, and there waswistfulness,in her gaze. Yet one would have guessed these things to be transient--tobe no more than the little shadows that sometimes pass between a brightmirror and the brightness it reflects.Zuleika was not strictlybeautiful. Her eyes were a trifle large, andtheir lashes longer than they need have been. An anarchy of small curlswas her chevelure, a dark upland of misrule, every hair asserting itsrights over a not discreditable brow.For the rest, her features werenot at all original. They seemed to have been derived rather from agallimaufry of familiar models. From Madame la Marquise de Saint-Ouencame the shapely tilt of the nose. The mouthwas a mere replica ofCupid's bow, lacquered scarlet and strung with the littlest pearls.No apple-tree, no wall of peaches, had not been robbed, nor any Tyrianrose-garden, for the glory of Miss Dobson's cheeks. Her neckwasimitation-marble. Her hands and feet were of very mean proportions. Shehad no waist to speak of.Yet, though a Greek would have railed at her asymmetry, and anElizabethan have called her "gipsy," Miss Dobsonnow, in the midst ofthe Edwardian Era, was the toast of two hemispheres. Late in her 'teensshe had become an orphan and a governess. Her grandfather had refusedher appeal for a home or an allowance, on theground that he would notbe burdened with the upshot of a marriage which he had once forbiddenand not yet forgiven. Lately, however, prompted by curiosity or byremorse, he had asked her to spend a week or so ofhis decliningyears with him. And she, "resting" between two engagements--one atHammerstein's Victoria, N.Y.C., the other at the Folies Bergeres,Paris--and having never been in Oxford, had so far let bygonesbebygones as to come and gratify the old man's whim.It may be that she still resented his indifference to those earlystruggles which, even now, she shuddered to recall. For a governess'life she had been, indeed,notably unfit. Hard she had thought it, thatpenury should force her back into the school-room she was scarce out of,there to champion the sums and maps and conjugations she had nevertried to master. Hating herwork, she had failed signally to pick upany learning from her little pupils, and had been driven from houseto house, a sullen and most ineffectual maiden. The sequence of hersituations was the swifter by reason of herpretty face. Was there agrown-up son, always he fell in love with her, and she would let hiseyes trifle boldly with hers across the dinner-table. When he offeredher his hand, she would refuse it--not because she "knewher place,"but because she did not love him. Even had she been a good teacher, herpresence could not have been tolerated thereafter. Her corded trunk,heavier by another packet of billets-doux and a month's salaryinadvance, was soon carried up the stairs of some other house.It chanced that she came, at length, to be governess in a large familythat had Gibbs for its name and Notting Hill for its background. Edward,the eldestson, was a clerk in the city, who spent his evenings in thepractice of amateur conjuring. He was a freckled youth, with hair thatbristled in places where it should have lain smooth, and he fell in lovewith Zuleika duly, atfirst sight, during high-tea. In the course of theevening, he sought to win her admiration by a display of all his tricks.These were familiar to this household, and the children had been sentto bed, the mother was dozing,long before the seance was at an end. ButMiss Dobson, unaccustomed to any gaieties, sat fascinated by the youngman's sleight of hand, marvelling that a top-hat could hold so manygoldfish, and a handkerchief turn soswiftly into a silver florin. Allthat night, she lay wide awake, haunted by the miracles he had wrought.Next evening, when she asked him to repeat them, "Nay," he whispered,"I cannot bear to deceive the girl I love.Permit me to explain thetricks." So he explained them. His eyes sought hers across the bowl ofgold-fish, his fingers trembled as he taught her to manipulate the magiccanister. One by one, she mastered the paltrysecrets. Her respect forhim waned with every revelation. He complimented her on her skill. "Icould not do it more neatly myself!" he said. "Oh, dear Miss Dobson,will you but accept my hand, all these things shall beyours--the cards,the canister, the goldfish, the demon egg-cup--all yours!" Zuleika,with ravishing coyness, answered that if he would give her them now, shewould "think it over." The swain consented, and at bed-timesheretired with the gift under her arm. In the light of her bedroom candleMarguerite hung not in greater ecstasy over the jewel-casket thanhung Zuleika over the box of tricks. She clasped her hands overthetremendous possibilities it held for her--manumission from her bondage,wealth, fame, power. Stealthily, so soon as the house slumbered,she packed her small outfit, embedding therein the precious gift.Noiselessly,she shut the lid of her trunk, corded it, shouldered it,stole down the stairs with it. Outside--how that chain had grated!and her shoulder, how it was aching!--she soon found a cab. She tooka night's sanctuary in somerailway-hotel. Next day, she moved intoa small room in a lodging-house off the Edgware Road, and there fora whole week she was sedulous in the practice of her tricks. Then sheinscribed her name on the books of a"Juvenile Party EntertainmentsAgency."The Christmas holidays were at hand, and before long she got anengagement. It was a great evening for her. Her repertory was, it mustbe confessed, old and obvious; but thechildren, in deference to theirhostess, pretended not to know how the tricks were done, and assumedtheir prettiest airs of wonder and delight. One of them even pretendedto be frightened, and was led howling from theroom. In fact, the wholething went off splendidly. The hostess was charmed, and told Zuleikathat a glass of lemonade would be served to her in the hall. Otherengagements soon followed. Zuleika was very, very happy.I cannot claimfor her that she had a genuine passion for her art. The true conjurerfinds his guerdon in the consciousness of work done perfectly and forits own sake. Lucre and applause are not necessary to him. If hewereset down, with the materials of his art, on a desert island, he wouldyet be quite happy. He would not cease to produce the barber's-pole fromhis mouth. To the indifferent winds he would still speak his patter,andeven in the last throes of starvation would not eat his live rabbit orhis gold-fish. Zuleika, on a desert island, would have spent most of hertime in looking for a man's foot-print. She was, indeed, far too humanacreature to care much for art. I do not say that she took her worklightly. She thought she had genius, and she liked to be told that thiswas so. But mainly she loved her work as a means of mere self-display.The frankadmiration which, into whatsoever house she entered, thegrown-up sons flashed on her; their eagerness to see her to the door;their impressive way of putting her into her omnibus--these were thethings she revelledin. She was a nymph to whom men's admiration was thegreater part of life. By day, whenever she went into the streets,she was conscious that no man passed her without a stare; and thisconsciousness gave a sharpzest to her outings. Sometimes she wasfollowed to her door--crude flattery which she was too innocent to fear.Even when she went into the haberdasher's to make some little purchaseof tape or riband, or into thegrocer's--for she was an epicure in herhumble way--to buy a tin of potted meat for her supper, the homage ofthe young men behind the counter did flatter and exhilarate her. As thehomage of men became for her,more and more, a matter of course, themore subtly necessary was it to her happiness. The more she won of it,the more she treasured it. She was alone in the world, and it saved herfrom any moment of regret that shehad neither home nor friends. Forher the streets that lay around her had no squalor, since she paced themalways in the gold nimbus of her fascinations. Her bedroom seemed notmean nor lonely to her, since the littlesquare of glass, nailed abovethe wash-stand, was ever there to reflect her face. Thereinto, indeed,she was ever peering. She would droop her head from side to side, shewould bend it forward and see herself frombeneath her eyelashes, thentilt it back and watch herself over her supercilious chin. And she wouldsmile, frown, pout, languish--let all the emotions hover upon her face;and always she seemed to herself lovelier thanshe had ever been.Yet was there nothing Narcissine in her spirit. Her love for her ownimage was not cold aestheticism. She valued that image not for its ownsake, but for sake of the glory it always won for her. In thelittleremote music-hall, where she was soon appearing nightly as an "earlyturn," she reaped glory in a nightly harvest. She could feel that allthe gallery-boys, because of her, were scornful of the sweetheartswedgedbetween them, and she knew that she had but to say "Will anygentleman in the audience be so good as to lend me his hat?" for thestalls to rise as one man and rush towards the platform. But greaterthings were instore for her. She was engaged at two halls in the WestEnd. Her horizon was fast receding and expanding. Homage became nightlytangible in bouquets, rings, brooches--things acceptable and (luckierthan their donors)accepted. Even Sunday was not barren for Zuleika:modish hostesses gave her postprandially to their guests. Came thatSunday night, notanda candidissimo calculo! when she received certainguttural compliments whichmade absolute her vogue and enabled her tocommand, thenceforth, whatever terms she asked for.Already, indeed, she was rich. She was living at the most exorbitanthotel in all Mayfair. She had innumerable gownsand no necessity to buyjewels; and she also had, which pleased her most, the fine cheval-glassI have described. At the close of the Season, Paris claimed her fora month's engagement. Paris saw her and was prostrate.


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Castle of Otranto, by Horace Walpole,Edited by Henry MorleyThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it,give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.orgTitle: The Castle of OtrantoAuthor: Horace WalpoleEditor: Henry MorleyRelease Date:May 5, 2012  [eBook #696][This file was first posted on October 22, 1996]Language: EnglishCharacter set encoding: UTF-8***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO***Transcribedfrom the 1901 Cassell and Company edition by David Price,email ccx074@pglaf.org                        CASSELLâS NATIONAL LIBRARY                               (New Series)                                * * * **                                   THE                            CASTLE OF OTRANTO.                                * * * * *                                    BY                             HORACE WALPOLE.                      [Picture: Decorativegraphic]                       CASSELL AND COMPANY, LIMITED                _LONDON_, _PARIS_, _NEW YORK & MELBOURNE_                                   1901INTRODUCTIONHORACE WALPOLE was the youngest son of SirRobert Walpole, the greatstatesman, who died Earl of Orford.  He was born in 1717, the year inwhich his father resigned office, remaining in opposition for almostthree years before his return to a long tenure ofpower.  Horace Walpolewas educated at Eton, where he formed a school friendship with ThomasGray, who was but a few months older.  In 1739 Gray wastravelling-companion with Walpole in France and Italy until theydifferedand parted; but the friendship was afterwards renewed, and remained firmto the end.  Horace Walpole went from Eton to Kingâs College, Cambridge,and entered Parliament in 1741, the year before hisfatherâs finalresignation and acceptance of an earldom.  His way of life was made easyto him.  As Usher of the Exchequer, Comptroller of the Pipe, and Clerk ofthe Estreats in the Exchequer, he received nearly twothousand a year fordoing nothing, lived with his father, and amused himself.Horace Walpole idled, and amused himself with the small life of thefashionable world to which he was proud of belonging, though he hadaquick eye for its vanities.  He had social wit, and liked to put it tosmall uses.  But he was not an empty idler, and there were seasons whenhe could become a sharp judge of himself.  âI am sensible,â he wrotetohis most intimate friend, âI am sensible of having more follies andweaknesses and fewer real good qualities than most men.  I sometimesreflect on this, though, I own, too seldom.  I always want to beginactinglike a man, and a sensible one, which I think I might be if Iwould.â  He had deep home affections, and, under many politeaffectations, plenty of good sense.Horace Walpoleâs father died in 1745.  The eldest son,who succeeded tothe earldom, died in 1751, and left a son, George, who was for a timeinsane, and lived until 1791.  As George left no child, the title andestates passed to Horace Walpole, then seventy-four years old,and theonly uncle who survived.  Horace Walpole thus became Earl of Orford,during the last six years of his life.  As to the title, he said that hefelt himself being called names in his old age.  He died unmarried, intheyear 1797, at the age of eighty.He had turned his house at Strawberry Hill, by the Thames, nearTwickenham, into a Gothic villaâeighteenth-century Gothicâand amusedhimself by spending freely upon itsadornment with such things as werethen fashionable as objects of taste.  But he delighted also in hisflowers and his trellises of roses, and the quiet Thames.  When confinedby gout to his London house in ArlingtonStreet, flowers from StrawberryHill and a bird were necessary consolations.  He set up also atStrawberry Hill a private printing press, at which he printed his friendGrayâs poems, also in 1758 his own âCatalogueof the Royal and NobleAuthors of England,â and five volumes of âAnecdotes of Painting inEngland,â between 1762 and 1771.Horace Walpole produced _The Castle of Otranto_ in 1765, at the matureage offorty-eight.  It was suggested by a dream from which he said hewaked one morning, and of which âall I could recover was, that I hadthought myself in an ancient castle (a very natural dream for a head likemine,filled with Gothic story), and that on the uppermost banister of agreat staircase I saw a gigantic hand in armour.  In the evening I satdown and began to write, without knowing in the least what I intended tosay orrelate.â  So began the tale which professed to be translated byâWilliam Marshal, gentleman, from the Italian of Onuphro Muralto, canonof the Church of St. Nicholas, at Otranto.â  It was written intwomonths.  Walpoleâs friend Gray reported to him that at Cambridge the bookmade âsome of them cry a little, and all in general afraid to go to bedoâ nights.â  _The Castle of Otranto_ was, in its ownway, an early signof the reaction towards romance in the latter part of the last century.This gives it interest.  But it has had many followers, and the hardymodern reader, when he readâs Grayâs note fromCambridge, needs to bereminded of its date.                                                                     H. M.PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION.The following work was found in the library of an ancient Catholic familyin the north ofEngland.  It was printed at Naples, in the black letter,in the year 1529.  How much sooner it was written does not appear.  Theprincipal incidents are such as were believed in the darkest ages ofChristianity; but thelanguage and conduct have nothing that savours ofbarbarism.  The style is the purest Italian.If the story was written near the time when it is supposed to havehappened, it must have been between 1095, the era of thefirst Crusade,and 1243, the date of the last, or not long afterwards.  There is noother circumstance in the work that can lead us to guess at the period inwhich the scene is laid: the names of the actors areevidentlyfictitious, and probably disguised on purpose: yet the Spanish names ofthe domestics seem to indicate that this work was not composed until theestablishment of the Arragonian Kings in Naples had madeSpanishappellations familiar in that country.  The beauty of the diction, andthe zeal of the author (moderated, however, by singular judgment) concurto make me think that the date of the composition was littleantecedentto that of the impression.  Letters were then in their most flourishingstate in Italy, and contributed to dispel the empire of superstition, atthat time so forcibly attacked by the reformers.  It is not unlikelythatan artful priest might endeavour to turn their own arms on theinnovators, and might avail himself of his abilities as an author toconfirm the populace in their ancient errors and superstitions.  If thiswas his view, hehas certainly acted with signal address.  Such a work asthe following would enslave a hundred vulgar minds beyond half the booksof controversy that have been written from the days of Luther to thepresent hour.Thissolution of the authorâs motives is, however, offered as a mereconjecture.  Whatever his views were, or whatever effects the executionof them might have, his work can only be laid before the public atpresent as amatter of entertainment.  Even as such, some apology for itis necessary.  Miracles, visions, necromancy, dreams, and otherpreternatural events, are exploded now even from romances.  That was notthe case when ourauthor wrote; much less when the story itself issupposed to have happened.  Belief in every kind of prodigy was soestablished in those dark ages, that an author would not be faithful tothe manners of the times, whoshould omit all mention of them.  He is notbound to believe them himself, but he must represent his actors asbelieving them.If this air of the miraculous is excused, the reader will find nothingelse unworthy of hisperusal.  Allow the possibility of the facts, andall the actors comport themselves as persons would do in their situation.There is no bombast, no similes, flowers, digressions, or unnecessarydescriptions.  Everything tendsdirectly to the catastrophe.  Never isthe readerâs attention relaxed.  The rules of the drama are almostobserved throughout the conduct of the piece.  The characters are welldrawn, and still bettermaintained.  Terror, the authorâs principalengine, prevents the story from ever languishing; and it is so oftencontrasted by pity, that the mind is kept up in a constant vicissitude ofinteresting passions.Some personsmay perhaps think the characters of the domestics too littleserious for the general cast of the story; but besides their oppositionto the principal personages, the art of the author is very observable inhis conduct of thesubalterns.  They discover many passages essential tothe story, which could not be well brought to light but by their_naÃ¯vetÃ©_ and simplicity.  In particular, the womanish terror and foiblesof Bianca, in the lastchapter, conduce essentially towards advancing thecatastrophe.It is natural for a translator to be prejudiced in favour of his adoptedwork.  More impartial readers may not be so much struck with the beautiesof thispiece as I was.  Yet I am not blind to my authorâs defects.  Icould wish he had grounded his plan on a more useful moral than this:that âthe sins of fathers are visited on their children to the third andfourthgeneration.â  I doubt whether, in his time, any more than atpresent, ambition curbed its appetite of dominion from the dread of soremote a punishment.  And yet this moral is weakened by that lessdirectinsinuation, that even such anathema may be diverted by devotion to St.Nicholas.  Here the interest of the Monk plainly gets the better of thejudgment of the author.  However, with all its faults, I have nodoubtbut the English reader will be pleased with a sight of this performance.The piety that reigns throughout, the lessons of virtue that areinculcated, and the rigid purity of the sentiments, exempt this work fromthecensure to which romances are but too liable.  Should it meet withthe success I hope for, I may be encouraged to reprint the originalItalian, though it will tend to depreciate my own labour.  Our languagefalls far shortof the charms of the Italian, both for variety andharmony.  The latter is peculiarly excellent for simple narrative.  It isdifficult in English to relate without falling too low or rising toohigh; a fault obviously occasioned bythe little care taken to speak purelanguage in common conversation.  Every Italian or Frenchman of any rankpiques himself on speaking his own tongue correctly and with choice.  Icannot flatter myself with having donejustice to my author in thisrespect: his style is as elegant as his conduct of the passions ismasterly.  It is a pity that he did not apply his talents to what theywere evidently proper forâthe theatre.I will detain thereader no longer, but to make one short remark.  Thoughthe machinery is invention, and the names of the actors imaginary, Icannot but believe that the groundwork of the story is founded on truth.The scene isundoubtedly laid in some real castle.  The author seemsfrequently, without design, to describe particular parts.  âThe chamber,âsays he, âon the right hand;â âthe door on the left hand;ââthe distancefrom the chapel to Conradâs apartment:â these and other passages arestrong presumptions that the author had some certain building in his eye.Curious persons, who have leisure to employ insuch researches, maypossibly discover in the Italian writers the foundation on which ourauthor has built.  If a catastrophe, at all resembling that which hedescribes, is believed to have given rise to this work, itwillcontribute to interest the reader, and will make the âCastle of Otrantoâa still more moving story.SONNET TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE LADY MARY COKE.   The gentle maid, whose hapless tale      Thesemelancholy pages speak;   Say, gracious lady, shall she fail      To draw the tear adown thy cheek?   No; never was thy pitying breast      Insensible to human woes;   Tender, thoâ firm, it melts distrest      Forweaknesses it never knows.   Oh! guard the marvels I relate   Of fell ambition scourgâd by fate,      From reasonâs peevish blame.   Blest with thy smile, my dauntless sail   I dare expand to Fancyâsgale,      For sure thy smiles are Fame.                                                                     H. W.CHAPTER I.Manfred, Prince of Otranto, had one son and one daughter: the latter, amost beautiful virgin, aged eighteen, wascalled Matilda.  Conrad, theson, was three years younger, a homely youth, sickly, and of no promisingdisposition; yet he was the darling of his father, who never showed anysymptoms of affection to Matilda.  Manfredhad contracted a marriage forhis son with the Marquis of Vicenzaâs daughter, Isabella; and she hadalready been delivered by her guardians into the hands of Manfred, thathe might celebrate the wedding as soon asConradâs infirm state of healthwould permit.Manfredâs impatience for this ceremonial was remarked by his family andneighbours.  The former, indeed, apprehending the severity of theirPrinceâs disposition,did not dare to utter their surmises on thisprecipitation.  Hippolita, his wife, an amiable lady, did sometimesventure to represent the danger of marrying their only son so early,considering his great youth, and greaterinfirmities; but she neverreceived any other answer than reflections on her own sterility, who hadgiven him but one heir.  His tenants and subjects were less cautious intheir discourses.  They attributed this hastywedding to the Princeâsdread of seeing accomplished an ancient prophecy, which was said to havepronounced that the castle and lordship of Otranto âshould pass from thepresent family, whenever the realowner should be grown too large toinhabit it.â  It was difficult to make any sense of this prophecy; andstill less easy to conceive what it had to do with the marriage inquestion.  Yet these mysteries, orcontradictions, did not make thepopulace adhere the less to their opinion.Young Conradâs birthday was fixed for his espousals.  The company wasassembled in the chapel of the Castle, and everything ready forbeginningthe divine office, when Conrad himself was missing.  Manfred, impatientof the least delay, and who had not observed his son retire, despatchedone of his attendants to summon the young Prince.  The servant,who hadnot stayed long enough to have crossed the court to Conradâs apartment,came running back breathless, in a frantic manner, his eyes staring, andfoaming at the mouth.  He said nothing, but pointed to thecourt.The company were struck with terror and amazement.  The PrincessHippolita, without knowing what was the matter, but anxious for her son,swooned away.  Manfred, less apprehensive than enraged attheprocrastination of the nuptials, and at the folly of his domestic, askedimperiously what was the matter?  The fellow made no answer, butcontinued pointing towards the courtyard; and at last, after repeatedquestionsput to him, cried out, âOh! the helmet! the helmet!âIn the meantime, some of the company had run into the court, from whencewas heard a confused noise of shrieks, horror, and surprise.  Manfred,who beganto be alarmed at not seeing his son, went himself to getinformation of what occasioned this strange confusion.  Matilda remainedendeavouring to assist her mother, and Isabella stayed for the samepurpose, and toavoid showing any impatience for the bridegroom, forwhom, in truth, she had conceived little affection.The first thing that struck Manfredâs eyes was a group of his servantsendeavouring to raise something thatappeared to him a mountain of sableplumes.  He gazed without believing his sight.âWhat are ye doing?â cried Manfred, wrathfully; âwhere is my son?âA volley of voices replied, âOh! my Lord! thePrince! the Prince! thehelmet! the helmet!âShocked with these lamentable sounds, and dreading he knew not what, headvanced hastily,âbut what a sight for a fatherâs eyes!âhe beheld hischild dashedto pieces, and almost buried under an enormous helmet, anhundred times more large than any casque ever made for human being, andshaded with a proportionable quantity of black feathers.The horror of thespectacle, the ignorance of all around how thismisfortune had happened, and above all, the tremendous phenomenon beforehim, took away the Princeâs speech.  Yet his silence lasted longer thaneven grief couldoccasion.  He fixed his eyes on what he wished in vainto believe a vision; and seemed less attentive to his loss, than buriedin meditation on the stupendous object that had occasioned it.  Hetouched, he examined thefatal casque; nor could even the bleedingmangled remains of the young Prince divert the eyes of Manfred from theportent before him.All who had known his partial fondness for young Conrad, were as muchsurprised attheir Princeâs insensibility, as thunderstruck themselves atthe miracle of the helmet.  They conveyed the disfigured corpse into thehall, without receiving the least direction from Manfred.  As little washe attentive tothe ladies who remained in the chapel.  On the contrary,without mentioning the unhappy princesses, his wife and daughter, thefirst sounds that dropped from Manfredâs lips were, âTake care of theLadyIsabella.âThe domestics, without observing the singularity of this direction, wereguided by their affection to their mistress, to consider it as peculiarlyaddressed to her situation, and flew to her assistance.  Theyconveyedher to her chamber more dead than alive, and indifferent to all thestrange circumstances she heard, except the death of her son.Matilda, who doted on her mother, smothered her own grief andamazement,and thought of nothing but assisting and comforting her afflicted parent.Isabella, who had been treated by Hippolita like a daughter, and whoreturned that tenderness with equal duty and affection, wasscarce lessassiduous about the Princess; at the same time endeavouring to partakeand lessen the weight of sorrow which she saw Matilda strove to suppress,for whom she had conceived the warmest sympathy offriendship.  Yet herown situation could not help finding its place in her thoughts.  She feltno concern for the death of young Conrad, except commiseration; and shewas not sorry to be delivered from a marriage whichhad promised herlittle felicity, either from her destined bridegroom, or from the severetemper of Manfred, who, though he had distinguished her by greatindulgence, had imprinted her mind with terror, from hiscauseless rigourto such amiable princesses as Hippolita and Matilda.While the ladies were conveying the wretched mother to her bed, Manfredremained in the court, gazing on the ominous casque, and regardless ofthecrowd which the strangeness of the event had now assembled aroundhim.  The few words he articulated, tended solely to inquiries, whetherany man knew from whence it could have come?  Nobody could give himtheleast information.  However, as it seemed to be the sole object of hiscuriosity, it soon became so to the rest of the spectators, whoseconjectures were as absurd and improbable, as the catastrophe itselfwasunprecedented.  In the midst of their senseless guesses, a young peasant,whom rumour had drawn thither from a neighbouring village, observed thatthe miraculous helmet was exactly like that on the figure inblack marbleof Alfonso the Good, one of their former princes, in the church of St.Nicholas.âVillain!  What sayest thou?â cried Manfred, starting from his trance ina tempest of rage, and seizing the young man bythe collar; âhow darestthou utter such treason?  Thy life shall pay for it.âThe spectators, who as little comprehended the cause of the Princeâs furyas all the rest they had seen, were at a loss to unravel thisnewcircumstance.  The young peasant himself was still more astonished, notconceiving how he had offended the Prince.  Yet recollecting himself,with a mixture of grace and humility, he disengaged himselffromManfredâs grip, and then with an obeisance, which discovered morejealousy of innocence than dismay, he asked, with respect, of what he wasguilty?  Manfred, more enraged at the vigour, however decentlyexerted,with which the young man had shaken off his hold, than appeased by hissubmission, ordered his attendants to seize him, and, if he had not beenwithheld by his friends whom he had invited to the nuptials,would havepoignarded the peasant in their arms.During this altercation, some of the vulgar spectators had run to thegreat church, which stood near the castle, and came back open-mouthed,declaring that the helmet