Дні мрій
The Twenty-first Of October
ItwasanothersortofsmokethattheinnereyeofSelinawaslookingupon,—asmokethathunginsullenbanksroundthemastsandthehullsofthefightingships;asmokefrombeneathwhichcamethunderandthecrashandthesplinter-rip,theshoutoftheboardingparty,thechokingsobofthegunnerstretchedbyhisgun;asmokefromoutofwhichatlastshesaw,asthrougharivenpall,theradiantspiritoftheVictor,crownedwiththecoronalofaperfectdeath,leapinfullassuranceupintotheetherthatImmortalsbreathe.Theduskwasgloomingtowardsdarknesswhensheroseandmovedslowlydowntowardsthebeckoningfire;somethingofthepriestessinherstride,somethingofthedevoteeinthesetpurposeofhereye.
Theleaveswerewellalightbythistime,andHaroldhadjustaddedanoldfurzebush,whichflamedandcrackledstirringly.
“Go’n’getsomemoresticks,”orderedSelina,“andshavings,’n’chunksofwood,’n’anythingyoucanfind.Lookhere—inthekitchen-gardenthere’sapileofoldpea-sticks.Fetchasmanyasyoucancarry,andthengobackandbringsomemore!”
“ButIsay,—”beganHarold,amazedly,scarceknowinghissister,andwithavisionofafrenziedgardener,pea-sticklessandthreateningretribution.
“Goandfetch’emquick!”shoutedSelina,stampingwithimpatience.
Haroldranoffatonce,truetothesternsystemofdisciplineinwhichhehadbeennurtured.ButhiseyeswerelikeroundO’s,andasheranhetalkedfasttohimself,inevidentdisorderofmind.
