Books with title The Maid-At-Arms

This is a pre-1923 historical reproduction that was curated for quality. Quality assurance was conducted on each of these books in an attempt to remove books with imperfections introduced by the digitization process. Though we have made best efforts - the books may have occasional errors that do not impede the reading experience. We believe this work is culturally important and have elected to bring the book back into print as part of our continuing commitment to the preservation of printed works worldwide.

After a hundred years the history of a great war waged by a successful nation is commonly reviewed by that nation with retrospective complacency. Distance dims the panorama; haze obscures the ragged gaps in the pageant until the long lines of victorious armies move smoothly across the horizon, with never an abyss to check their triumph. Yet there is one people who cannot view the past through a mirage. The marks of the birth-pangs remain on the land; its struggle for breath was too terrible, its scars too deep to hide or cover. For us, the pages of the past turn all undimmed; battles, brutally etched, stand clear as our own hills against the sky -- for in this land we have no haze to soften truth. Treading the austere corridor of our Pantheon, we, too, come at last to victory -- but what a victory! Not the familiar, gracious goddess, wide-winged, crowned, bearing wreaths, but a naked, desperate creature, gaunt, dauntless, turning her iron face to the west. . . .

Excerpt from The Maid-at-Arms: A NovelFter a hundred years the history of a great war waged by a successful nation is commonly reviewed by that nation with retrospective complacency.About the PublisherForgotten Books publishes hundreds of thousands of rare and classic books. Find more at www.forgottenbooks.comThis book is a reproduction of an important historical work. Forgotten Books uses state-of-the-art technology to digitally reconstruct the work, preserving the original format whilst repairing imperfections present in the aged copy. In rare cases, an imperfection in the original, such as a blemish or missing page, may be replicated in our edition. We do, however, repair the vast majority of imperfections successfully; any imperfections that remain are intentionally left to preserve the state of such historical works.

We drew bridle at the cross-roads; he stretched his legs in his stirrups, raised his arms, yawned, and dropped his huge hands upon either thigh with a resounding slap. "Well, good-bye," he said, gravely, but made no movement to leave me. "Do we part here?" I asked, sorry to quit my chance acquaintance of the Johnstown highway. He nodded, yawned again, and removed his round cap of silver-fox fur to scratch his curly head. "We certainly do part at these cross-roads, if you are bound for Varicks'," he said. I waited a moment, then thanked him for the pleasant entertainment his company had afforded me, and wished him a safe journey. "A safe journey?" he repeated, carelessly. "Oh yes, of course; safe journeys are rare enough in these parts. I'm obliged to you for the thought. You are very civil, sir. Good-bye." Yet neither he nor I gathered bridle to wheel our horses, but sat there in mid-road, looking at each other. "My name is Mount," he said at length; "let me guess yours. No, sir! don't tell me. Give me three sportsman's guesses; my hunting-knife against the wheat straw you are chewing!" "With pleasure," I said, amused, "but you could scarcely guess it." "Your name is Varick?" I shook my head. "Butler?" "No. Look sharp to your knife, friend." "Oh, then I have guessed it," he said, coolly; "your name is Ormond--and I'm glad of it." "Why are you glad of it?" I asked, curiously, wondering, too, at his knowledge of me, a stranger. "You will answer that question for yourself when you meet your kin, the Varicks and Butlers," he said; and the reply had an insolent ring that did not please me, yet I was loath to quarrel with this boyish giant whose amiable company I had found agreeable on my long journey through a land so new to me. "My friend," I said, "you are blunt." "Only in speech, sir," he replied, lazily swinging one huge leg over the pommel of his saddle. Sitting at ease in the sunshine, he opened his fringed hunting-shirt to the breeze blowing. "So you go to the Varicks?" he mused aloud, eyes slowly closing in the sunshine like the brilliant eyes of a basking lynx. "Do you know the lord of the manor?" I asked. "Who? The patroon?" "I mean Sir Lupus Varick." "Yes; I know him--I know Sir Lupus. We call him the patroon, though he's not of the same litter as the Livingstons, the Cosbys, the Phillipses, Van Rensselaers, and those feudal gentlemen who juggle with the high justice, the middle, and the low--and who will juggle no more." "Am I mistaken," said I, "in taking you for a Boston man?" "In one sense you are," he said, opening his eyes. "I was born in Vermont." "Then you are a rebel?" "Lord!" he said, laughing, "how you twist our English tongue! 'Tis his Majesty across the waters who rebels at our home-made Congress." "Is it not dangerous to confess such things to a stranger?" I asked, smiling.