-
Главная
-
- Книги
-
- Авторы
-
- Вальтер Скотт
-
- Айвенго
-
- Стр. 188/364
Для того чтобы воспользоваться озвучкой предложений, необходимо
Войти или зарегистрироваться
Озвучка предложений доступна при наличии PRO-доступа
Купить PRO-доступ
To
act
as
I
have
acted
,
to
think
as
I
have
thought
,
requires
the
maddening
love
of
pleasure
,
mingled
with
the
keen
appetite
of
revenge
,
the
proud
consciousness
of
power
;
droughts
too
intoxicating
for
the
human
heart
to
bear
,
and
yet
retain
the
power
to
prevent
.
Their
force
has
long
passed
away
--
Age
has
no
pleasures
,
wrinkles
have
no
influence
,
revenge
itself
dies
away
in
impotent
curses
.
Then
comes
remorse
,
with
all
its
vipers
,
mixed
with
vain
regrets
for
the
past
,
and
despair
for
the
future
!
--
Then
,
when
all
other
strong
impulses
have
ceased
,
we
become
like
the
fiends
in
hell
,
who
may
feel
remorse
,
but
never
repentance
.
--
But
thy
words
have
awakened
a
new
soul
within
me
--
Well
hast
thou
said
,
all
is
possible
for
those
who
dare
to
die
!
--
Thou
hast
shown
me
the
means
of
revenge
,
and
be
assured
I
will
embrace
them
.
It
has
hitherto
shared
this
wasted
bosom
with
other
and
with
rival
passions
--
henceforward
it
shall
possess
me
wholly
,
and
thou
thyself
shalt
say
,
that
,
whatever
was
the
life
of
Ulrica
,
her
death
well
became
the
daughter
of
the
noble
Torquil
.
There
is
a
force
without
beleaguering
this
accursed
castle
--
hasten
to
lead
them
to
the
attack
,
and
when
thou
shalt
see
a
red
flag
wave
from
the
turret
on
the
eastern
angle
of
the
donjon
,
press
the
Normans
hard
--
they
will
then
have
enough
to
do
within
,
and
you
may
win
the
wall
in
spite
both
of
bow
and
mangonel
.
--
Begone
,
I
pray
thee
--
follow
thine
own
fate
,
and
leave
me
to
mine
.
"
Cedric
would
have
enquired
farther
into
the
purpose
which
she
thus
darkly
announced
,
but
the
stern
voice
of
Front-de-Boeuf
was
heard
,
exclaiming
,
"
Where
tarries
this
loitering
priest
?
By
the
scallop-shell
of
Compostella
,
I
will
make
a
martyr
of
him
,
if
he
loiters
here
to
hatch
treason
among
my
domestics
!
"
"
What
a
true
prophet
,
"
said
Ulrica
,
"
is
an
evil
conscience
!
But
heed
him
not
--
out
and
to
thy
people
--
Cry
your
Saxon
onslaught
,
and
let
them
sing
their
war-song
of
Rollo
,
if
they
will
;
vengeance
shall
bear
a
burden
to
it
.
"
As
she
thus
spoke
,
she
vanished
through
a
private
door
,
and
Reginald
Front-de-Boeuf
entered
the
apartment
.
Cedric
,
with
some
difficulty
,
compelled
himself
to
make
obeisance
to
the
haughty
Baron
,
who
returned
his
courtesy
with
a
slight
inclination
of
the
head
.
"
Thy
penitents
,
father
,
have
made
a
long
shrift
--
it
is
the
better
for
them
,
since
it
is
the
last
they
shall
ever
make
.
Hast
thou
prepared
them
for
death
?
"
"
I
found
them
,
"
said
Cedric
,
in
such
French
as
he
could
command
,
"
expecting
the
worst
,
from
the
moment
they
knew
into
whose
power
they
had
fallen
.
"
"
How
now
,
Sir
Friar
,
"
replied
Front-de-Boeuf
,
"
thy
speech
,
methinks
,
smacks
of
a
Saxon
tongue
?
"
"
I
was
bred
in
the
convent
of
St
Withold
of
Burton
,
"
answered
Cedric
.
"
Ay
?
"
said
the
Baron
;
"
it
had
been
better
for
thee
to
have
been
a
Norman
,
and
better
for
my
purpose
too
;
but
need
has
no
choice
of
messengers
.
That
St
Withold
's
of
Burton
is
an
owlet
's
nest
worth
the
harrying
.
The
day
will
soon
come
that
the
frock
shall
protect
the
Saxon
as
little
as
the
mail-coat
.
"
