THE MYSTERY OF EDWIN DROOD
CHAPTER I—THE DAWN
An ancient English Cathedral Tower? How can the ancient English
Cathedral tower be here! The well-known massive gray square tower of its
old Cathedral? How can that be here! There is no spike of rusty iron in
the air, between the eye and it, from any point of the real prospect.
What is the spike that intervenes, and who has set it up? Maybe it is
set up by the Sultan’s orders for the impaling of a horde of Turkish
robbers, one by one. It is so, for cymbals clash, and the Sultan goes by
to his palace in long procession. Ten thousand scimitars flash in the
sunlight, and thrice ten thousand dancing-girls strew flowers. Then,
follow white elephants caparisoned in countless gorgeous colours, and
infinite in number and attendants. Still the Cathedral Tower rises in
the background, where it cannot be, and still no writhing figure is on
the grim spike. Stay! Is the spike so low a thing as the rusty spike on
the top of a post of an old bedstead that has tumbled all awry? Some
vague period of drowsy laughter must be devoted to the consideration of
this possibility.
Shaking from head to foot, the man whose scattered consciousness has thus
fantastically pieced itself together, at length rises, supports his
trembling frame upon his arms, and looks around. He is in the meanest
and closest of small rooms. Through the ragged window-curtain, the light
of early day steals in from a miserable court. He lies, dressed, across
a large unseemly bed, upon a bedstead that has indeed given way under the
weight upon it. Lying, also dressed and also across the bed, not
longwise, are a Chinaman, a Lascar, and a haggard woman. The two first
are in a sleep or stupor; the last is blowing at a kind of pipe, to
kindle it. And as she blows, and shading it with her lean hand,
concentrates its red spark of light, it serves in the dim morning as a
lamp to show him what he sees of her.
‘Another?’ says this woman, in a querulous, rattling whisper. ‘Have
another?’
He looks about him, with his hand to his forehead.
1105548952
An ancient English Cathedral Tower? How can the ancient English
Cathedral tower be here! The well-known massive gray square tower of its
old Cathedral? How can that be here! There is no spike of rusty iron in
the air, between the eye and it, from any point of the real prospect.
What is the spike that intervenes, and who has set it up? Maybe it is
set up by the Sultan’s orders for the impaling of a horde of Turkish
robbers, one by one. It is so, for cymbals clash, and the Sultan goes by
to his palace in long procession. Ten thousand scimitars flash in the
sunlight, and thrice ten thousand dancing-girls strew flowers. Then,
follow white elephants caparisoned in countless gorgeous colours, and
infinite in number and attendants. Still the Cathedral Tower rises in
the background, where it cannot be, and still no writhing figure is on
the grim spike. Stay! Is the spike so low a thing as the rusty spike on
the top of a post of an old bedstead that has tumbled all awry? Some
vague period of drowsy laughter must be devoted to the consideration of
this possibility.
Shaking from head to foot, the man whose scattered consciousness has thus
fantastically pieced itself together, at length rises, supports his
trembling frame upon his arms, and looks around. He is in the meanest
and closest of small rooms. Through the ragged window-curtain, the light
of early day steals in from a miserable court. He lies, dressed, across
a large unseemly bed, upon a bedstead that has indeed given way under the
weight upon it. Lying, also dressed and also across the bed, not
longwise, are a Chinaman, a Lascar, and a haggard woman. The two first
are in a sleep or stupor; the last is blowing at a kind of pipe, to
kindle it. And as she blows, and shading it with her lean hand,
concentrates its red spark of light, it serves in the dim morning as a
lamp to show him what he sees of her.
‘Another?’ says this woman, in a querulous, rattling whisper. ‘Have
another?’
He looks about him, with his hand to his forehead.
THE MYSTERY OF EDWIN DROOD
CHAPTER I—THE DAWN
An ancient English Cathedral Tower? How can the ancient English
Cathedral tower be here! The well-known massive gray square tower of its
old Cathedral? How can that be here! There is no spike of rusty iron in
the air, between the eye and it, from any point of the real prospect.
What is the spike that intervenes, and who has set it up? Maybe it is
set up by the Sultan’s orders for the impaling of a horde of Turkish
robbers, one by one. It is so, for cymbals clash, and the Sultan goes by
to his palace in long procession. Ten thousand scimitars flash in the
sunlight, and thrice ten thousand dancing-girls strew flowers. Then,
follow white elephants caparisoned in countless gorgeous colours, and
infinite in number and attendants. Still the Cathedral Tower rises in
the background, where it cannot be, and still no writhing figure is on
the grim spike. Stay! Is the spike so low a thing as the rusty spike on
the top of a post of an old bedstead that has tumbled all awry? Some
vague period of drowsy laughter must be devoted to the consideration of
this possibility.
Shaking from head to foot, the man whose scattered consciousness has thus
fantastically pieced itself together, at length rises, supports his
trembling frame upon his arms, and looks around. He is in the meanest
and closest of small rooms. Through the ragged window-curtain, the light
of early day steals in from a miserable court. He lies, dressed, across
a large unseemly bed, upon a bedstead that has indeed given way under the
weight upon it. Lying, also dressed and also across the bed, not
longwise, are a Chinaman, a Lascar, and a haggard woman. The two first
are in a sleep or stupor; the last is blowing at a kind of pipe, to
kindle it. And as she blows, and shading it with her lean hand,
concentrates its red spark of light, it serves in the dim morning as a
lamp to show him what he sees of her.
‘Another?’ says this woman, in a querulous, rattling whisper. ‘Have
another?’
He looks about him, with his hand to his forehead.
An ancient English Cathedral Tower? How can the ancient English
Cathedral tower be here! The well-known massive gray square tower of its
old Cathedral? How can that be here! There is no spike of rusty iron in
the air, between the eye and it, from any point of the real prospect.
What is the spike that intervenes, and who has set it up? Maybe it is
set up by the Sultan’s orders for the impaling of a horde of Turkish
robbers, one by one. It is so, for cymbals clash, and the Sultan goes by
to his palace in long procession. Ten thousand scimitars flash in the
sunlight, and thrice ten thousand dancing-girls strew flowers. Then,
follow white elephants caparisoned in countless gorgeous colours, and
infinite in number and attendants. Still the Cathedral Tower rises in
the background, where it cannot be, and still no writhing figure is on
the grim spike. Stay! Is the spike so low a thing as the rusty spike on
the top of a post of an old bedstead that has tumbled all awry? Some
vague period of drowsy laughter must be devoted to the consideration of
this possibility.
Shaking from head to foot, the man whose scattered consciousness has thus
fantastically pieced itself together, at length rises, supports his
trembling frame upon his arms, and looks around. He is in the meanest
and closest of small rooms. Through the ragged window-curtain, the light
of early day steals in from a miserable court. He lies, dressed, across
a large unseemly bed, upon a bedstead that has indeed given way under the
weight upon it. Lying, also dressed and also across the bed, not
longwise, are a Chinaman, a Lascar, and a haggard woman. The two first
are in a sleep or stupor; the last is blowing at a kind of pipe, to
kindle it. And as she blows, and shading it with her lean hand,
concentrates its red spark of light, it serves in the dim morning as a
lamp to show him what he sees of her.
‘Another?’ says this woman, in a querulous, rattling whisper. ‘Have
another?’
He looks about him, with his hand to his forehead.
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Product Details
| BN ID: | 2940012986177 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | SAP |
| Publication date: | 09/08/2011 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| File size: | 259 KB |
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