Kidnapped

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Роберт Стивенсон. Kidnapped

PREFACE TO THE BIOGRAPHICAL EDITION

DEDICATION. MY DEAR CHARLES BAXTER:

CHAPTER I. I SET OFF UPON MY JOURNEY TO THE HOUSE OF SHAWS

CHAPTER II. I COME TO MY JOURNEY’S END

CHAPTER III. I MAKE ACQUAINTANCE OF MY UNCLE

CHAPTER IV. I RUN A GREAT DANGER IN THE HOUSE OF SHAWS

CHAPTER V. I GO TO THE QUEEN’S FERRY

CHAPTER VI. WHAT BEFELL AT THE QUEEN’S FERRY

CHAPTER VII. I GO TO SEA IN THE BRIG “COVENANT” OF DYSART

CHAPTER VIII. THE ROUND-HOUSE

CHAPTER IX. THE MAN WITH THE BELT OF GOLD

CHAPTER X. THE SIEGE OF THE ROUND-HOUSE

CHAPTER XI. THE CAPTAIN KNUCKLES UNDER

CHAPTER XII. I HEAR OF THE “RED FOX”

CHAPTER XIII. THE LOSS OF THE BRIG

CHAPTER XIV. THE ISLET

CHAPTER XV. THE LAD WITH THE SILVER BUTTON: THROUGH THE ISLE OF MULL

CHAPTER XVI. THE LAD WITH THE SILVER BUTTON: ACROSS MORVEN

CHAPTER XVII. THE DEATH OF THE RED FOX

CHAPTER XVIII. I TALK WITH ALAN IN THE WOOD OF LETTERMORE

CHAPTER XIX. THE HOUSE OF FEAR

CHAPTER XX. THE FLIGHT IN THE HEATHER: THE ROCKS

CHAPTER XXI. THE FLIGHT IN THE HEATHER: THE HEUGH OF CORRYNAKIEGH

CHAPTER XXII. THE FLIGHT IN THE HEATHER: THE MOOR

CHAPTER XXIII. CLUNY’S CAGE

CHAPTER XXIV. THE FLIGHT IN THE HEATHER: THE QUARREL

CHAPTER XXV. IN BALQUHIDDER

CHAPTER XXVI. END OF THE FLIGHT: WE PASS THE FORTH

CHAPTER XXVII. I COME TO MR. RANKEILLOR

CHAPTER XXVIII. I GO IN QUEST OF MY INHERITANCE

CHAPTER XXIX. I COME INTO MY KINGDOM

CHAPTER XXX. GOOD-BYE

Отрывок из книги

If you ever read this tale, you will likely ask yourself more questions than I should care to answer: as for instance how the Appin murder has come to fall in the year 1751, how the Torran rocks have crept so near to Earraid, or why the printed trial is silent as to all that touches David Balfour. These are nuts beyond my ability to crack. But if you tried me on the point of Alan’s guilt or innocence, I think I could defend the reading of the text. To this day you will find the tradition of Appin clear in Alan’s favour. If you inquire, you may even hear that the descendants of “the other man” who fired the shot are in the country to this day. But that other man’s name, inquire as you please, you shall not hear; for the Highlander values a secret for itself and for the congenial exercise of keeping it. I might go on for long to justify one point and own another indefensible; it is more honest to confess at once how little I am touched by the desire of accuracy. This is no furniture for the scholar’s library, but a book for the winter evening school-room when the tasks are over and the hour for bed draws near; and honest Alan, who was a grim old fire-eater in his day has in this new avatar no more desperate purpose than to steal some young gentleman’s attention from his Ovid, carry him awhile into the Highlands and the last century, and pack him to bed with some engaging images to mingle with his dreams.

As for you, my dear Charles, I do not even ask you to like this tale. But perhaps when he is older, your son will; he may then be pleased to find his father’s name on the fly-leaf; and in the meanwhile it pleases me to set it there, in memory of many days that were happy and some (now perhaps as pleasant to remember) that were sad. If it is strange for me to look back from a distance both in time and space on these bygone adventures of our youth, it must be stranger for you who tread the same streets – who may to-morrow open the door of the old Speculative, where we begin to rank with Scott and Robert Emmet and the beloved and inglorious Macbean – or may pass the corner of the close where that great society, the L. J. R., held its meetings and drank its beer, sitting in the seats of Burns and his companions. I think I see you, moving there by plain daylight, beholding with your natural eyes those places that have now become for your companion a part of the scenery of dreams. How, in the intervals of present business, the past must echo in your memory! Let it not echo often without some kind thoughts of your friend,

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“I have come here with a letter,” I said, “to Mr. Ebenezer Balfour of Shaws. Is he here?”

“From whom is it?” asked the man with the blunderbuss.

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