Short Fiction

Short Fiction

By John Buchan.

Table of Contents

1. Titlepage
2. Imprint
3. Sir Quixote of the Moors
   1. Preface
   2. I: On the High Moors
   3. II: I Fare Badly Indoors
   4. III: I Fare Dably Abroad
   5. IV: Of My Coming Lindean
   6. V: I Pledge My Word
   7. VI: Idle Days
   8. VII: A Daughter of Herodias
   9. VIII: How I Set the Signal
   10. IX: I Commune with Myself
   11. X: Of My Departure
4. Prester John
5. At the Article of Death
6. Politics and the Mayfly
7. A Reputation
   1. I
   2. II
   3. III
8. A Journey of Little Profit
9. At the Rising of the Waters
10. The Earlier Affection
11. The Black Fishers
12. Summer Weather
13. The Oasis in the Snow
14. The Herd of Standlan
15. Streams of Water in the South
    1. I
    2. II
    3. III
    4. IV
16. The Rime of True Thomas
17. Comedy in the Full Moon
    1. I
    2. II
    3. III
    4. IV
    5. V
18. No-Man’s-Land
    1. I: The Shieling of Farawa
    2. II: Tells of an Evening’s Talk
    3. III: The Scarts of the Muneraw
    4. IV: The Darkness That Is Under the Earth
    5. V: The Troubles of a Conscience
    6. VI: Summer on the Moors
    7. VII: In Tuas Manus, Domine!
    8. VIII: Note in Conclusion by the Editor
19. The Far Islands
    1. I
    2. II
    3. III
20. The Watcher by the Threshold
    1. I: The House of More
       1. I
       2. II
    2. II: The Minister Intervenes
    3. III: Events on the Uplands
21. The Outgoing of the Tide
22. Fountainblue
    1. I
    2. II
    3. III
    4. IV
    5. V: Mr. Henry Durward to Lady Claudia Etheridge.
    6. VI: Sir Hugh Clanroyden to Mr. Henry Durward. Some Years Later.
23. Basilissa
    1. I
    2. II
24. The King of Ypres
25. The Company of the Marjolaine
    1. I
    2. II
    3. III
26. A Lucid Interval
    1. I
    2. II
    3. III
    4. IV
    5. V
27. The Lemnian
28. Space
29. The Grove of Ashtaroth
    1. I
    2. II
    3. III
    4. IV
30. The Riding of Ninemileburn
31. The Kings of Orion
32. The Green Glen
    1. I
    2. II
    3. III
    4. IV
    5. V
    6. VI
    7. VII
    8. VIII
    9. IX
33. Endnotes
34. Colophon
35. Uncopyright

Imprint

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Sir Quixote of the Moors

To
Gilbert Murray
Whatsoever in this book is not
worthless is dedicated
by his friend.

Preface

The narrative, now for the first time presented to the world, was written by the Sieur de Rohaine to while away the time during the long period and painful captivity, borne with heroic resolution, which preceded his death. He chose the English tongue, in which he was extraordinarily proficient, for two reasons: first, as an exercise in the language; second, because he desired to keep the passages here recorded from the knowledge of certain of his kinsfolk in France. Few changes have been made in his work. Now and then an English idiom has been substituted for a French; certain tortuous expressions have been emended; and in general the portions in the Scots dialect have been rewritten, since the author’s knowledge of this manner of speech seems scarcely to have been so great as he himself thought.

I

On the High Moors

Before me stretched a black heath, over which the mist blew in gusts, and through whose midst the road crept like an adder. Great storm-marked hills flanked me on either side, and since I set out I had seen their harsh outline against a thick sky, until I longed for flat ground to rest my sight upon. The way was damp, and the soft mountain gravel sank under my horse’s feet; and ever and anon my legs were splashed by the water from some pool which the rain had left. Shrill mountain birds flew around, and sent their cries through the cold air. Sometimes the fog would lift for a moment from the face of the land and show me a hilltop or the leaden glimmer of a loch, but nothing more⁠—no green field or homestead; only a barren and accursed desert.

Neither horse nor man was in any spirit. My back ached, and I shivered in my sodden garments, while my eyes were dim from gazing on flying clouds. The poor beast stumbled often, for he had traveled far on little fodder, and a hill-road was a new thing in his experience. Saladin I called him⁠—for I had fancied that there was something Turkish about his black face, with the heavy turban-like band above his forehead⁠—in my old fortunate days when I bought him. He was a fine horse of the Normandy breed, and had carried me on many a wild journey, though on none so forlorn as this.

But to