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Updated: May 10, 2025
Judith gave a little cry when she saw the blood and Brydon's bruised face. He lifted his head as though her eyes had drawn his, and, their looks meeting, he took his hat off. Her face flushed; she dropped her eyes. Her grandfather seized Brydon's big hand, and said some trembling words of thanks. The girl stepped inside, made a bed for him upon the sofa, and got him something to drink.
He paused, smiled enigmatically, and dropped a bit of wood on the swift current. Brydon frowned, then said: "Well, made for what, Pierre?" Pierre looked over Brydon's shoulder, towards a pretty cottage on the hillside. "Made for homes like that, not this," he said, and he nodded first towards the hillside, then to the Bridge House.
She was very cool; she immediately asked Pierre to go for the young doctor who had lately come to the place, and made ready warm water with which she wiped Brydon's blood-stained face and hands, and then gave him some brandy. His comrades standing round watched her admiringly, she was so deft and delicate.
Pierre glanced at the hand, then at Brydon's face, and said sharply: "Take it away." The hand dropped; but Brydon's face was hot, and his eyes were hard. Pierre continued: "But then women are strange. What you expect they will not no. Riches? it is nothing; houses like that on the hill, nothing. They have whims.
Brydon's Tour through Sicily and Malta. 2 vols. 8vo. 1776. Liveliness of description of scenery and manners, couched in an easy and elegant style, has rendered these volumes extremely popular, notwithstanding they do not display much learning or knowledge, and are even sometimes superficial and inaccurate. Boswell's Account of Corsica. 1768. 8vo.
The working parties were called in, the assembly was sounded, the gates were closed, the walls were lined, and the batteries were manned; for it was believed for the moment that the enemy were in full pursuit of fugitives following in Brydon's track. The situation impressed Broadfoot with the conviction that a crisis had come in the fortunes of the Jellalabad garrison.
It is my granddaughter at that window. Tell her that I'll think of her to the last. . . . Good-bye!" Brydon was eyeing the logs. The old man's voice was husky; he could not cry out, but he waved his hand to the girl. "Oh, save him!" came from her faintly. Brydon's eyes were now on the covered bridge. Their raft was in the channel, coming straight between two piers. He measured his chances.
From the hour when he bound up Brydon's head, Judith's fingers aiding him, he felt a spring in his blood new to him. When he came to know exactly what it meant, and acted, it was too late. He was much surprised that his advances were gently repulsed. He pressed them hard: that was a mistake. He had an idea, not uncommon in such cases, that he was conferring an honour. But he was very young.
He paused, smiled enigmatically, and dropped a bit of wood on the swift current. Brydon frowned, then said: "Well, made for what, Pierre?" Pierre looked over Brydon's shoulder, towards a pretty cottage on the hillside. "Made for homes like that, not this," he said, and he nodded first towards the hillside, then to the Bridge House.
Pierre put out his hand to hers creeping along the coverlet to him; but it was only instinct that guided him, for he could not see. He started on his journey with his hat pulled down over his eyes. One evening when the river was very high and it was said that Brydon's drives of logs would soon be down, a strange thing happened at the Bridge House. The young doctor had gone, whispering to Mr.
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