The Bridge of the Gods
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Frederic Homer Balch. The Bridge of the Gods
BOOK I. THE APOSTLE TO THE INDIANS
CHAPTER I. THE NEW ENGLAND MEETING
CHAPTER II. THE MINISTER’S HOME
CHAPTER III. A DARKENED FIRESIDE
CHAPTER IV. THE COUNCIL OF ORDINATION
CHAPTER V. INTO TRACKLESS WILDS
BOOK II. THE OPENING OF THE DRAMA
CHAPTER I. SHALL THE GREAT COUNCIL BE HELD?
CHAPTER II. THE WAR-CHIEF AND THE SEER
CHAPTER III. WALLULAH
CHAPTER IV. SENDING OUT THE RUNNERS
BOOK III. THE GATHERING OF THE TRIBES
CHAPTER I. THE BROKEN PEACE-PIPE
CHAPTER II. ON THE WAY TO THE COUNCIL
CHAPTER III. THE GREAT CAMP ON THE ISLAND
CHAPTER IV. AN INDIAN TRIAL
CHAPTER V. SENTENCED TO THE WOLF-DEATH
BOOK IV. THE LOVE TALE
CHAPTER I. THE INDIAN TOWN
CHAPTER II. THE WHITE WOMAN IN THE WOOD
CHAPTER III. CECIL AND THE WAR-CHIEF
CHAPTER IV. ARCHERY AND GAMBLING
CHAPTER V. A DEAD QUEEN’S JEWELS
CHAPTER VI. THE TWILIGHT TALE
CHAPTER VII. ORATOR AGAINST ORATOR
CHAPTER VIII. IN THE DARK
CHAPTER IX. QUESTIONING THE DEAD
BOOK V. THE SHADOW OF THE END
CHAPTER I. THE HAND OF THE GREAT SPIRIT
CHAPTER II. THE MARRIAGE AND THE BREAKING UP
CHAPTER III. AT THE CASCADES
CHAPTER IV. MULTNOMAH’S DEATH-CANOE
CHAPTER V. AS WAS WRIT IN THE BOOK OF FATE
Отрывок из книги
One Sabbath morning more than two hundred years ago, the dawn broke clear and beautiful over New England. It was one of those lovely mornings that seem like a benediction, a smile of God upon the earth, so calm are they, so full of unutterable rest and quiet. Over the sea, with its endless line of beach and promontory washed softly by the ocean swells; over the towns of the coast, – Boston and Salem, – already large, giving splendid promise of the future; over the farms and hamlets of the interior, and into the rude clearings where the outer limits of civilization mingled with the primeval forest, came a flood of light as the sun rose above the blue line of eastern sea. And still beyond, across the Alleghanies, into the depth of the wilderness, passed the sweet, calm radiance, as if bearing a gleam of gospel sunshine to the Indians of the forest.
Nowhere did the Sunday seem more peaceful than in a sheltered valley in Massachusetts. Beautiful indeed were the thrifty orchards, the rustic farmhouses, the meadows where the charred stumps that marked the last clearing were festooned with running vines, the fields green with Indian corn, and around all the sweep of hills dark with the ancient wood. Even the grim unpainted meeting-house on the hill, which was wont to look the very personification of the rigid Calvinistic theology preached within it, seemed a little less bare and forbidding on that sweet June Sabbath.
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The sun’s edge flashed above the horizon, and its first rays fell through the uncurtained window full upon her face. She turned toward them, smiling faintly, and her face grew tenderly, radiantly beautiful, as if on that beam of sunshine the spirit of her dead lover had come to greet her from the sea. Then the sparkle died out of her eyes and the smile faded from her lips. It was only a white, dead face that lay there bathed in golden light.
A moment after, Cecil left the house with swift footsteps and plunged into the adjacent wood. There under a spreading oak he flung himself prone upon the earth, and buried his face in his hands. A seething turmoil of thoughts swept his mind. The past rose before him like a panorama. All his married life rushed back upon him, and every memory was regret and accusation.
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