Belphœbe » Sir Walter Scott

Rob Roy

Mashkioya — Sat, 02 Oct 2010 16:53:58 +0000

‘Young man,’ she said, presenting me with a ring, which I well remembered as one of the few ornaments that Miss Vernon sometimes wore, ‘this comes from one whom you will never see more. If it is a joyless token, it is well fitted to pass through the hands of one to whom joy can never be known. Her last words were – Let him forget me forever.’

Sir Walter Scott, Rob Roy

Waverley

Mashkioya — Fri, 27 Jun 2008 13:45:25 +0000

With an aching heart, as may well be imagined, Edward viewed this wreck of a mansion so respected. But his anxiety to learn the fate of the proprietors, and his fears as to what that fate might be, increased with every step. When he entered upon the terrace, new scenes of desolation were visible. The balustrade was broken down, the walls destroyed, the borders overgrown with weeds, and the fruit-trees cut down or grubbed up.

Sir Walter Scott, Waverley

Ivanhoe

Mashkioya — Fri, 14 Sep 2007 14:37:41 +0000

The sudden and romantic appearance of his son in the lists at Ashby he [Cedric] had justly regarded as almost a death’s blow to his hopes. His paternal affection, it is true, had for an instant gained the victory over pride and patriotism; but both had returned in full force, and under their joint operation he was now bent upon making a determined effort for the union of Athelstane and Rowena, together with expediting those other measures which seemed necessary to forward the restoration of Saxon independence.

Sir Walter Scott, Ivanhoe

Ivanhoe

Mashkioya — Mon, 20 Aug 2007 15:56:51 +0000

“Gallants of England,” said Front-de-Bœuf, “how relish ye your entertainment at Torquilstone? Are ye yet aware what your surquedy and outrecuidance merit, for scoffing at the entertainment of a prince of the house of Anjou? Have ye forgotten how ye requited the unmerited hospitality of the royal John? An ye pay not the richer ransom, I will hang ye up by the feet from the iron bars of these windows, till the kites and hooded crows have made skeletons of you! Speak out, ye Saxon dogs–what bid ye for your worthless lives? How say you, you of Rotherwood?”

“Not a doit I,” answered poor Wamba; “and for hanging up by the feet, my brain has been topsy-turvy, they say, ever since the biggin was bound first round my head; so turning me upside down may peradventure restore it again.”

Sir Walter Scott, Ivanhoe