Virgin of the Sun

Rider Haggard H.

Description

Settle in for a thrill-a-minute journey to the land of the ancient Incans in H. Rider Haggard's novel The Virgin of the Sun. An antique dealer whose life is thrown into disarray by a sudden tragedy sets off for the adventure of a lifetime -- and along the way finds a romance that begins to heal his hardened heart.

Sujets

• Adventure (Guyana)
• Adventure

Informations

• Publié par: The Floating Press
• Date de parution: 01 juin 2012
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781775458883
• Langue: English

Extrait

THE VIRGIN OF THE SUN
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H. R. HAGGARD
 
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The Virgin of the Sun First published in 1922 ISBN 978-1-77545-888-3 © 2012 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
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Dedication Introductory BOOK I Chapter I - The Sword and the Ring Chapter II - The Lady Blanche Chapter III - Hubert Comes to London Chapter IV - Kari Chapter V - The Coming of Blanche Chapter VI - Marriage—And After BOOK II Chapter I - The New World Chapter II - The Rocky Isle Chapter III - The Daughter of the Moon Chapter IV - The Oracle of Rimac Chapter V - Kari Goes Chapter VI - The Choice Chapter VII - The Return of Kari Chapter VIII - The Field of Blood Chapter IX - Kari Comes to His Own Chapter X - The Great Horror Chapter XI - The House of Death Chapter XII - The Fight to the Death Chapter XIII - The Kiss of Quilla Endnotes
Dedication
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My Dear Little,
Some five-and-thirty years ago it was our custom to discuss manymatters, among them, I think, the history and romance of the vanishedEmpires of Central America.
In memory of those far-off days will you accept a tale that deals withone of them, that of the marvellous Incas of Peru; with the legend alsothat, long before the Spanish Conquerors entered on their mission ofrobbery and ruin, there in that undiscovered land lived and died a WhiteGod risen from the sea?
Ever sincerely yours, H. Rider Haggard. Ditchingham, Oct. 24, 1921.
James Stanley Little, Esq.
Introductory
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There are some who find great interest, and even consolation, amid theworries and anxieties of life in the collection of relics of the past,drift or long-sunk treasures that the sea of time has washed up upon ourmodern shore.
The great collectors are not of this class. Having large sums at theirdisposal, these acquire any rarity that comes upon the market and addit to their store which in due course, perhaps immediately upon theirdeaths, also will be put upon the market and pass to the possession ofother connoisseurs. Nor are the dealers who buy to sell again and thusgrow wealthy. Nor are the agents of museums in many lands, who purchasefor the national benefit things that are gathered together in certaingreat public buildings which perhaps, some day, though the thoughtmakes one shiver, will be looted or given to the flames by enemies or byfurious, thieving mobs.
Those that this Editor has in mind, from one of whom indeed he obtainedthe history printed in these pages, belong to a quite differentcategory, men of small means often, who collect old things, for the mostpart at out-of-the-way sales or privately, because they love them, andsometimes sell them again because they must. Frequently these old thingsappeal, not because of any intrinsic value that they may have, noteven for their beauty, for they may be quite unattractive even to thecultivated eye, but rather for their associations. Such folk love toreflect upon and to speculate about the long-dead individuals who haveowned the relics, who have supped their soup from the worn Elizabethanspoon, who have sat at the rickety oak table found in a kitchen or anout-house, or upon the broken, ancient chair. They love to think of thelittle children whose skilful, tired hands wrought the faded sampler andwhose bright eyes smarted over its innumerable stitches.
Who, for instance, was the May Shore ("Fairy" broidered in a bracketunderneath, was her pet name), who finished yonder elaborate example onher tenth birthday, the 1st of May—doubtless that is where she gother name—in the year 1702, and on what far shore does she keep herbirthdays now? None will ever know. She has vanished into the greatsea of mystery whence she came, and there she lives and has her being,forgotten upon earth, or sleeps and sleeps and sleeps. Did she die youngor old, married or single? Did she ever set her children to work othersamplers, or had she none? was she happy or unhappy, was she homely orbeautiful? Was she a sinner or a saint? Again none will ever know. Shewas born on the 1st of May, 1692, and certainly she died on some dateunrecorded. So far as human knowledge goes that is all her history, justas much or as little as will be left of most of us who breathe to-daywhen this earth has completed two hundred and eighteen more revolutionsround the sun.
But the kind of collector alluded to can best be exemplified in theindividual instance of him from whom the manuscript was obtained, ofwhich a somewhat modernized version is printed on these pages. He hasbeen dead some years, leaving no kin; and under his will, such of hismotley treasures as it cared to accept went to a local museum, whilethe rest and his other property were sold for the benefit of a mysticalbrotherhood, for the old fellow was a kind of spiritualist. Therefore,there is no harm in giving his plebeian name, which was Potts. Mr.Potts had a small draper's shop in an undistinguished and rarely visitedcountry town in the east of England, which shop he ran with the helpof an assistant almost as old and peculiar as himself. Whether he madeanything out of it or whether he lived upon private means is now unknownand does not matter. Anyway, when there was something of antiquarianinterest or value to be bought, generally he had the money to pay forit, though at times, in order to do so, he was forced to sell somethingelse. Indeed these were the only occasions when it was possible topurchase anything, indifferent hosiery excepted, from Mr. Potts.
Now, I, the Editor, who also love old things, and to whom therefore Mr.Potts was a sympathetic soul, was aware of this fact and entered intoan arrangement with the peculiar assistant to whom I have alluded, toadvise me of such crises which arose whenever the local bank called Mr.Potts's attention to the state of his account. Thus it came about thatone day I received the following letter:—
Sir,
The Guv'nor has gone a bust upon some cracked china, the ugliest thatever I saw though no judge. So if you want to get that old tall clock atthe first price or any other of his rubbish, I think now is your chance.Anyhow, keep this dark as per agreement.
Your obedient, Tom.
(He always signed himself Tom, I suppose to mystify, although I believehis real name was Betterly.)
The result of this epistle was a long and disagreeable bicycle ride inwet autumn weather, and a visit to the shop of Mr. Potts. Tom, aliasBetterly, who was trying to sell some mysterious undergarments to a fatold woman, caught sight of me, the Editor aforesaid, and winked. In ashadowed corner of the shop sat Mr. Potts himself upon a high stool, awizened little old man with a bent back, a bald head, and a hookednose upon which were set a pair of enormous horn-rimmed spectacles thataccentuated his general resemblance to an owl perched upon the edge ofits nest-hole. He was busily engaged in doing nothing, and in staringinto nothingness as, according to Tom, was his habit when communing withwhat he, Tom, called his "dratted speerits."
"Customer!" said Tom in a harsh voice. "Sorry to disturb you at yourprayers, Guv'nor, but not having two pair of hands I can't serve acrowd," meaning the old woman of the undergarments and myself.
Mr. Potts slid off his stool and prepared for action. When he saw,however, who the customer was he bristled—that is the only word for it.The truth is that although between us there was an inward and spiritualsympathy, there was also an outward and visible hostility. Twice Ihad outbid Mr. Potts at a local auction for articles which he desired.Moreover, after the fashion of every good collector he felt it to behis duty to hate me as another collector. Lastly, several times Ihad offered him smaller sums for antiques upon which he set a certainmonetary value. It is true that long ago I had given up this bargainingfor the reason that Mr. Potts would never take less than he asked.Indeed he followed the example of the vendor of the Sibylline books inancient Rome. He did not destroy the goods indeed after the fashionof that person and demand the price of all of them for the one thatremained, but invariably he put up his figure by 10 per cent. andnothing would induce him to take off one farthing.
"What do you want, sir?" he said grumpily. "Vests, hose, collars, orsocks?"
"Oh, socks, I think," I replied at hazard, thinking that they wouldbe easiest to carry, whereupon Mr. Potts produced some peculiarlyobjectionable and shapeless woollen articles which he almost threw atme, saying that they were all he had in stock. Now I detest woollensocks and never wear them. Still, I made a purchase, thinking withsympathy of my old gardener whose feet they would soon be scratching,and while the parcel was being tied up, said in an insinuating voice,"Anything fresh upstairs, Mr. Potts?"
"No, sir," he answered shortly, "at least, not much, and if there werewhat's the use of showing them to you after the business about thatclock?"
"It was £15 you wanted for it, Mr. Potts?" I asked.
"No, sir, it was £17 and now it's 10 per cent. on to that; you can workout the sum for yourself."
"Well, let's have another look at it, Mr. Potts," I replied humbly,whereon with a grunt and a muttered injunction to Tom to mind the shop,he led the way upstairs.
Now the house in which Mr. Potts dwelt had once been of considerablepretensions and was very, very old, Elizabethan, I should think,although it had been refronted with a horrible stucco to suit moderntastes. The oak staircase was good though narrow,