Загублений світ
A Procession! A Procession!
Friesland,aDutch-Americanliner,whichassertsthatatninenextmorning,StartPointbeingatthetimetenmilesupontheirstarboardquarter,theywerepassedbysomethingbetweenaflyinggoatandamonstrousbat,whichwasheadingataprodigiouspacesouthandwest.Ifitshominginstinctleditupontherightline,therecanbenodoubtthatsomewhereoutinthewastesoftheAtlanticthelastEuropeanpterodactylfounditsend.
AndGladys—oh,myGladys!—Gladysofthemysticlake,nowtobere-namedtheCentral,fornevershallshehaveimmortalitythroughme.DidInotalwaysseesomehardfiberinhernature?DidInot,evenatthetimewhenIwasproudtoobeyherbehest,feelthatitwassurelyapoorlovewhichcoulddrivealovertohisdeathorthedangerofit?DidInot,inmytruestthoughts,alwaysrecurringandalwaysdismissed,seepastthebeautyoftheface,and,peeringintothesoul,discernthetwinshadowsofselfishnessandofficklenessgloomingatthebackofit?Didshelovetheheroicandthespectacularforitsownnoblesake,orwasitfortheglorywhichmight,withouteffortorsacrifice,bereflecteduponherself?Orarethesethoughtsthevainwisdomwhichcomesaftertheevent?Itwastheshockofmylife.Foramomentithadturnedmetoacynic.Butalready,asIwrite,aweekhaspassed,andwehavehadourmomentousinterviewwithLordJohnRoxtonand—well,perhapsthingsmightbeworse.
Letmetellitinafewwords.
