A fantasy novel by George MacDonald

Home Main Menu Order Support About Search

Share page  

Previous Contents Next

Fight on, my men, Sir Andrew sayes, A little Ime hurt, but yett not slaine;
He but lye downe and bleede awhile, And then lie rise and fight againe.
Ballad of Sir Andrew Barton.
But I could not remain where I was any longer, though the daylight was hateful to me, and the thought of the great, innocent, bold sunrise unen­durable. Here there was no well to cool my face, smarting with the bitterness of my own tears. Nor would I have washed in the well of that grotto, had it flowed clear as the rivers of Paradise. I rose, and feebly left the sepulchral cave. I took my way I knew not whither, but still towards the sunrise. The birds were singing; but not for me. All the creatures spoke a language of their own, with which I had nothing to do, and to which I cared not to find the key any more. I walked listlessly along. What distressed me most—more even than my own folly— was the perplexing question—How can beauty and
Previous Contents Next