-
Главная
-
- Книги
-
- Авторы
-
- Томас Рид
-
- Всадник без головы
-
- Стр. 7/662
Для того чтобы воспользоваться озвучкой предложений, необходимо
Войти или зарегистрироваться
Озвучка предложений доступна при наличии PRO-доступа
Купить PRO-доступ
"
But
,
Captain
Calhoun
,
"
protested
the
overseer
,
in
response
to
the
gentleman
who
had
reproached
him
in
such
chaste
terms
;
"
how
air
we
to
find
the
way
?
"
"
Find
the
way
!
What
are
you
raving
about
?
We
have
n't
lost
it
--
have
we
?
"
"
I
'm
afeerd
we
hev
,
though
.
The
wheel-tracks
ai
n't
no
longer
to
be
seen
.
They
're
burnt
out
,
along
wi
'
the
grass
.
"
"
What
matters
that
?
I
reckon
we
can
cross
a
piece
of
scorched
prairie
,
without
wheel-marks
to
guide
us
?
We
'll
find
them
again
on
the
other
side
.
"
"
Ye-es
,
"
naïvely
responded
the
overseer
,
who
,
although
a
"
down-easter
,
"
had
been
far
enough
west
to
have
learnt
something
of
frontier
life
;
"
if
theer
air
any
other
side
.
I
ked
n't
see
it
out
o
'
the
seddle
--
ne'er
a
sign
o
'
it
.
"
"
Whip
up
,
niggers
!
whip
up
!
"
shouted
Calhoun
,
without
heeding
the
remark
;
and
spurring
onwards
,
as
a
sign
that
the
order
was
to
be
obeyed
.
The
teams
are
again
set
in
motion
;
and
,
after
advancing
to
the
edge
of
the
burnt
tract
,
without
instructions
from
any
one
,
are
once
more
brought
to
a
stand
.
The
white
men
on
horseback
draw
together
for
a
consultation
.
There
is
need
:
as
all
are
satisfied
by
a
single
glance
directed
to
the
ground
before
them
.
Far
as
the
eye
can
reach
the
country
is
of
one
uniform
colour
--
black
as
Erebus
.
There
is
nothing
green
--
not
a
blade
of
grass
--
not
a
reed
nor
weed
!
It
is
after
the
summer
solstice
.
The
ripened
culms
of
the
gramineae
,
and
the
stalks
of
the
prairie
flowers
,
have
alike
crumbled
into
dust
under
the
devastating
breath
of
fire
.
