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base of the bluff

Le 16 juin 2017, 06:28 dans Humeurs 0

 

The skiff rocked. He heard a soft splash, and when he glanced around, Brienne was gone. A moment later he spied her again, pulling herself from the water at the . She waded through a shallow pool, scrambled over some rocks, and began to climb. Ser Cleos goggled, mouth open. Fool, thought Jaime. “Ignore the wench,” he snapped at his cousin. “Steer.”  They could see the sail moving behind the trees. The river galley came into full view at the top of the cutoff, twenty-five yards behind. Her bow swung hard as she came around, and a half-dozen arrows took flight, but all went well wide. The motion of the two boats was giving the archers difficulty, but Jaime knew they’d soon enough learn to compensate. Brienne was halfway up the cliff face, pulling herself from handhold to handhold. Ryger’s sure to see her, and once he does he’ll have those bowmen bring her down. Jaime decided to see if the old man’s pride would make him stupid. “Ser Robin,” he shouted, “hear me for a moment.”  Ser Robin raised a hand, and his archers lowered their bows. “Say what you will, Kingslayer, but say it quickly.”  The skiff swung through a litter of broken stones as Jaime called out, “I know a better way to settle this - single combat. You and I”  “I was not born this morning, Lannister.”  “No, but you’re like to die this afternoon.” Jaime raised his hands so the other could see the manacles. “I’ll fight you in chains. What could you fear?”  “Not you, ser. If the choice were mine, I’d like nothing better, but I am commanded to bring you back alive if possible. Bowmen.” He signaled them on. “Notch. Draw Loo -”  The range was less than twenty yards. The archers could scarcely have missed, but as they pulled on their longbows a rain of pebbles cascaded down around them. Small stones rattled on their deck, bounced off their helms, and made splashes on both sides of the bow. Those who had wits enough to understand raised their eyes just as a boulder the size of a cow detached itself from the top of the bluff. Ser Robin shouted in dismay. The stone tumbled through the air, struck the face of the cliff, cracked in two, and smashed down on them. The larger piece snapped the mast, tore through the sail, sent two of the archers flying into the river, and crushed the leg of a rower as he bent over his oar. The rapidity with which the galley began to fill with water suggested that the smaller fragment had punched right through her hull. The oarsman’s screams echoed off the bluff while the archers flailed wildly in the current. From the way they were splashing, neither man could swim. Jaime laughed.  By the time they emerged from the cutoff, the galley was foundering amongst pools, eddies, and snags, and Jaime Lannister had decided that the gods were good. Ser Robin and his thrice-damned archers would have a long wet walk back to Riverrun, and he was rid of the big homely wench as well. I could not have planned it better myself. Once I’m free of these irons...  Ser Cleos raised a shout. When Jaime looked up, Brienne was lumbering along the clifftop, well ahead of them, having cut across a finger of land while they were following the bend in the river. She threw herself off the rock, and looked almost graceful as she folded into a dive. It would have been ungracious to hope that she would smash her head on a stone. Ser Cleos turned the skiff toward her. Thankfully, Jaime still had his oar.

stand when centuries shall

Le 19 mai 2017, 05:50 dans Humeurs 0

"I will give you a picture of Pompeii hotel career singapore,"said theMoon."I was in the suburb in the Street of Tombs,as theycall it,where the fair monuments stand,in the spot where,ages ago,the merry youths,their temples bound with rosywreaths,danced with the fair sisters of Lais.Now,the stillness of death reigned around.German mercenaries,in the Neapolitan service,kept guard,played cards and dice;and a troop of strangers from beyond the mountains came into the town,accompanied by a sentry.They want- ed to see the city that had risen from the grave illumined by my beams;and I showed them the wheel-ruts in the streets paved with broad lava slabs;I showed them the names on the doors,and the signs that hung!there yet:
they saw in the little courtyard the basins of the foun- tains,ornamented with shells;but no jet of water gushed upwards,no songs sounded forth from the richly-painted chambers,where the bronze dog kept the door.
"It was the City of the Dead;only Vesuvius thun- dered forth his everlasting hymn,each separate verse of which is called by men an eruption.We went to the tem- ple of Venus,built of snow-white marble,with its high altar in front of the broad steps,and the weeping-willows sprouting freshly forth among the pillars.The air was transparent and blue,and black Vesuvius formed the background,with fire ever shooting forth from it Polar,like the stem of the pine tree.Above it stretched the smoky cloud in the silence of the night,like the crown of the pine, but in a blood-red illumination.Among the company was a lady singer,a real and great singer.I have witnessed the homage paid to her in the greatest cities of Europe.
When they came to the tragic theatre,they all sat down on the amphitheatre steps,and thus a small part of the house was occupied by an audience,as it had been many cen- turies ago.The stage still stood unchanged,and its walled side-scenes,and the two arches in the background, through which the beholders saw the same scene that had been exhibited in the old times—a scene painted by Na- ture herself,namely,the mountains between Sorrento and Amalfi.The singer gaily mounted the ancient stage,and sang.The place inspired her,and she reminded me of a wild Arab horse,that rushes headlong on with snorting nostrils and flying mane—her song was so light and yet so firm.Anon I thought of the mourning mother beneath the cross at Golgotha,so deep was the expression of pain.
And,just as it had done thousands of years ago,the sound of applause and delight now filled the theatre.'Happy, gifted creature!'all the hearers exclaimed.Five minutes more,and the stage was empty,the company had van- ished,and not a sound more was heard—all were gone.
But the ruins stood unchanged,as they will have gone by,and when none shall know of the momentary applause and the triumph Polar M600 of the fair songstress;when all will be forgotten and gone,and even for me this hour will be but a dream of the past."
 
THIRTEENTH EVENING
 
"I looked through the windows of an editor's house,"

found another rose

Le 17 mai 2017, 06:21 dans Humeurs 0

And she found it when she awoke SmarTone. Oh, what bitter tears she wept, and to no one could she confide her sorrow. The window stood open the whole day:the little elf could easily get out to the roses and all the other flowers,but he could not find it in his heart to quit the afflicted maiden. In the window stood a plant, a monthly rose bush:he seated himself in one of the flowers, and looked at the poor girl. Her brother often came into the room, and, in spite of his wicked deed, he always seemed cheerful, but she dared not say a word of the grief that was in her heart.
As soon as the night came, she crept out of the house,went to the wood,to the place where the linden tree grew, removed the leaves from the ground, turned up the earth, and immediately found him who had been slain.Oh, how she wept,and prayed that she might die also!
Gladly would she have taken the body home with her,but that she could not do. Then she took the pale head with the closed eyes, kissed the cold mouth, and shook the earth out of the beautiful hair.“That I will keep,”she said. And when she had laid earth upon the dead body,she took the head, and a little sprig of the jasmine that bloomed in the wood where he was buried, home with her.
As soon as she came into her room, she brought the greatest flower-pot she could find: in this she laid the dead man's head, strewed earth upon it and then planted the jasmine twig in the pot.
“Farewell! farewell!”whispered the little elf: he could endure it no longer to see all this pain, and there fore flew out to his rose in the garden dermes. But the rose was faded;only a few pale leaves clung to the wild bush.
“Alas!how soon everything good and beautiful passes away!”sighed the elf.
At last he, and this became his house;behind its delicate fragrant leaves he could hide himself and dwell.
Every morning he flew to the window of the poor girl, and she was always standing weeping by the flowerpot. The bitter tears fell upon the jasmine spray, and every day, as the girl became paler and paler, the twig stood there fresher and greener, and one shoot after another sprouted forth, little white buds burst forth, and these she kissed. But the bad brother scolded his sister,and asked if she had gone mad. He could not bear it,and could not imagine why she was always weeping over the flower-pot. He did not know what closed eyes were there, what red lips had there faded into earth. And she bowed her head upon the flower-pot,and the little elf of the rose bush found her slumbering there.Then he seated himself in her ear, told her of the evening in the arbour,of the fragrance of the rose, and the love of the elves.And she dreamed a marvellously nu skin hong kong sweet dream, and while she dreamed her life passed away.She had died a quiet death, and she was in heaven with him whom she loved.

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