Cororuc glanced about him and hastened his pace. He was no coward,
but he did not like the place. Tall trees rose all about, their sullen
branches shutting out the sunlight. The dim trail led in and out among
them, sometimes skirting the edge of a ravine, where Cororuc could
gaze down at the treetops beneath. Occasionally, through a rift in the
forest, he could see away to the forbidding hills that hinted of the
ranges much farther to the west, that were the mountains of Cornwall.
In those mountains the bandit chief, Buruc the Cruel, was supposed
to lurk, to descend upon such victims as might pass that way. Cororuc
shifted his grip on his spear and quickened his step. His haste was
due not only to the menace of the outlaws, but also to the fact that
he wished once more to be in his native land. He had been on a secret
mission to the wild Cornish tribesmen; and though he had been more or
less successful, he was impatient to be out of their inhospitable
country. It had been a long, wearisome trip, and he still had nearly
the whole of Britain to traverse. He threw a glance of aversion about
him. He longed for the pleasant woodlands, with scampering deer, and
chirping birds, to which he was used. He longed for the tall white
cliff, where the blue sea lapped merrily. The forest through which he
was passing seemed uninhabited. There were no birds, no animals; nor
had he seen a sign of human habitation.
His comrades still lingered at the savage court of the Cornish
king, enjoying his crude hospitality, in no hurry to be away. But
Cororuc was not content. So he had left them to follow at their
leisure and had set out alone.
Rather a fine figure of a man was Cororuc. Some six feet in
height, strongly though leanly built, he was, with gray eyes, a pure
Briton but not a pure Celt, his long yellow hair revealing, in him as
in all his race, a trace of Belgae.
He was clad in skillfully dressed deerskin, for the Celts had not
yet perfected the coarse cloth which they made, and most of the race
preferred the hides of deer.
He was armed with a long bow of yew wood, made with no especial
skill but an efficient weapon; a long bronze broadsword, with a
buckskin sheath; a long bronze dagger and a small, round shield,
rimmed with a band of bronze and covered with tough buffalo hide. A
crude bronze helmet was on his head. Faint devices were painted in
woad on his arms and cheeks.
His beardless face was of the highest type of Briton, clear,
straightforward, the shrewd, practical determination of the Nordic
mingling with the reckless courage and dreamy artistry of the Celt.
1108295774
but he did not like the place. Tall trees rose all about, their sullen
branches shutting out the sunlight. The dim trail led in and out among
them, sometimes skirting the edge of a ravine, where Cororuc could
gaze down at the treetops beneath. Occasionally, through a rift in the
forest, he could see away to the forbidding hills that hinted of the
ranges much farther to the west, that were the mountains of Cornwall.
In those mountains the bandit chief, Buruc the Cruel, was supposed
to lurk, to descend upon such victims as might pass that way. Cororuc
shifted his grip on his spear and quickened his step. His haste was
due not only to the menace of the outlaws, but also to the fact that
he wished once more to be in his native land. He had been on a secret
mission to the wild Cornish tribesmen; and though he had been more or
less successful, he was impatient to be out of their inhospitable
country. It had been a long, wearisome trip, and he still had nearly
the whole of Britain to traverse. He threw a glance of aversion about
him. He longed for the pleasant woodlands, with scampering deer, and
chirping birds, to which he was used. He longed for the tall white
cliff, where the blue sea lapped merrily. The forest through which he
was passing seemed uninhabited. There were no birds, no animals; nor
had he seen a sign of human habitation.
His comrades still lingered at the savage court of the Cornish
king, enjoying his crude hospitality, in no hurry to be away. But
Cororuc was not content. So he had left them to follow at their
leisure and had set out alone.
Rather a fine figure of a man was Cororuc. Some six feet in
height, strongly though leanly built, he was, with gray eyes, a pure
Briton but not a pure Celt, his long yellow hair revealing, in him as
in all his race, a trace of Belgae.
He was clad in skillfully dressed deerskin, for the Celts had not
yet perfected the coarse cloth which they made, and most of the race
preferred the hides of deer.
He was armed with a long bow of yew wood, made with no especial
skill but an efficient weapon; a long bronze broadsword, with a
buckskin sheath; a long bronze dagger and a small, round shield,
rimmed with a band of bronze and covered with tough buffalo hide. A
crude bronze helmet was on his head. Faint devices were painted in
woad on his arms and cheeks.
His beardless face was of the highest type of Briton, clear,
straightforward, the shrewd, practical determination of the Nordic
mingling with the reckless courage and dreamy artistry of the Celt.
The Lost Race
Cororuc glanced about him and hastened his pace. He was no coward,
but he did not like the place. Tall trees rose all about, their sullen
branches shutting out the sunlight. The dim trail led in and out among
them, sometimes skirting the edge of a ravine, where Cororuc could
gaze down at the treetops beneath. Occasionally, through a rift in the
forest, he could see away to the forbidding hills that hinted of the
ranges much farther to the west, that were the mountains of Cornwall.
In those mountains the bandit chief, Buruc the Cruel, was supposed
to lurk, to descend upon such victims as might pass that way. Cororuc
shifted his grip on his spear and quickened his step. His haste was
due not only to the menace of the outlaws, but also to the fact that
he wished once more to be in his native land. He had been on a secret
mission to the wild Cornish tribesmen; and though he had been more or
less successful, he was impatient to be out of their inhospitable
country. It had been a long, wearisome trip, and he still had nearly
the whole of Britain to traverse. He threw a glance of aversion about
him. He longed for the pleasant woodlands, with scampering deer, and
chirping birds, to which he was used. He longed for the tall white
cliff, where the blue sea lapped merrily. The forest through which he
was passing seemed uninhabited. There were no birds, no animals; nor
had he seen a sign of human habitation.
His comrades still lingered at the savage court of the Cornish
king, enjoying his crude hospitality, in no hurry to be away. But
Cororuc was not content. So he had left them to follow at their
leisure and had set out alone.
Rather a fine figure of a man was Cororuc. Some six feet in
height, strongly though leanly built, he was, with gray eyes, a pure
Briton but not a pure Celt, his long yellow hair revealing, in him as
in all his race, a trace of Belgae.
He was clad in skillfully dressed deerskin, for the Celts had not
yet perfected the coarse cloth which they made, and most of the race
preferred the hides of deer.
He was armed with a long bow of yew wood, made with no especial
skill but an efficient weapon; a long bronze broadsword, with a
buckskin sheath; a long bronze dagger and a small, round shield,
rimmed with a band of bronze and covered with tough buffalo hide. A
crude bronze helmet was on his head. Faint devices were painted in
woad on his arms and cheeks.
His beardless face was of the highest type of Briton, clear,
straightforward, the shrewd, practical determination of the Nordic
mingling with the reckless courage and dreamy artistry of the Celt.
but he did not like the place. Tall trees rose all about, their sullen
branches shutting out the sunlight. The dim trail led in and out among
them, sometimes skirting the edge of a ravine, where Cororuc could
gaze down at the treetops beneath. Occasionally, through a rift in the
forest, he could see away to the forbidding hills that hinted of the
ranges much farther to the west, that were the mountains of Cornwall.
In those mountains the bandit chief, Buruc the Cruel, was supposed
to lurk, to descend upon such victims as might pass that way. Cororuc
shifted his grip on his spear and quickened his step. His haste was
due not only to the menace of the outlaws, but also to the fact that
he wished once more to be in his native land. He had been on a secret
mission to the wild Cornish tribesmen; and though he had been more or
less successful, he was impatient to be out of their inhospitable
country. It had been a long, wearisome trip, and he still had nearly
the whole of Britain to traverse. He threw a glance of aversion about
him. He longed for the pleasant woodlands, with scampering deer, and
chirping birds, to which he was used. He longed for the tall white
cliff, where the blue sea lapped merrily. The forest through which he
was passing seemed uninhabited. There were no birds, no animals; nor
had he seen a sign of human habitation.
His comrades still lingered at the savage court of the Cornish
king, enjoying his crude hospitality, in no hurry to be away. But
Cororuc was not content. So he had left them to follow at their
leisure and had set out alone.
Rather a fine figure of a man was Cororuc. Some six feet in
height, strongly though leanly built, he was, with gray eyes, a pure
Briton but not a pure Celt, his long yellow hair revealing, in him as
in all his race, a trace of Belgae.
He was clad in skillfully dressed deerskin, for the Celts had not
yet perfected the coarse cloth which they made, and most of the race
preferred the hides of deer.
He was armed with a long bow of yew wood, made with no especial
skill but an efficient weapon; a long bronze broadsword, with a
buckskin sheath; a long bronze dagger and a small, round shield,
rimmed with a band of bronze and covered with tough buffalo hide. A
crude bronze helmet was on his head. Faint devices were painted in
woad on his arms and cheeks.
His beardless face was of the highest type of Briton, clear,
straightforward, the shrewd, practical determination of the Nordic
mingling with the reckless courage and dreamy artistry of the Celt.
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The Lost Race
The Lost Race
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Product Details
| BN ID: | 2940013750487 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | WDS Publishing |
| Publication date: | 01/16/2012 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| File size: | 19 KB |
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