Lavengro by George Borrow (read me a book txt) 📕

some said that the brave from town, who was reputed the best man of the two, and whose form was a perfect model of athletic beauty, allowed himself, for lucre vile, to be vanquished by the massive champion with the flattened nose. One thing is certain, that the former was suddenly seen to sink to the earth before a blow of by no means extraordinary power. Time, time! was called; but there he lay upon the ground apparently senseless, and from thence he did not lift his head till several seconds after the umpires had declared his adversary victor.

There were shouts; indeed, there’s never a lack of shouts to celebrate a victory, however acquired; but there was also much grinding of teeth, especially amongst the fighting men from town. “Tom has sold us,” said they, “sold us to the yokels; who would have thought it?” Then there was fresh grinding of teeth, and scowling brows were turned to the heaven; but what is this? is it possible, does the heaven scowl too? why, only a quarter of an hour ago⁠—but what may not happen in a quarter of an hour? For many weeks the weather had been of the most glorious description, the eventful day, too, had dawned gloriously, and so it had continued till some two hours after noon; the fight was then over; and about that time I looked up⁠—what a glorious sky of deep blue, and what a big, fierce sun swimming high above in the midst of that blue; not a cloud⁠—there had not been one for weeks⁠—not a cloud to be seen, only in the far west, just on the horizon, something like the extremity of a black wing; that was only a quarter of an hour ago, and now the whole northern side of the heaven is occupied by a huge black cloud, and the sun is only occasionally seen amidst masses of driving vapour; what a change! but another fight is at hand, and the pugilists are clearing the outer ring; how their huge whips come crashing upon the heads of the yokels; blood flows, more blood than in the fight: those blows are given with right goodwill, those are not sham blows, whether of whip or fist; it is with fist that grim Shelton strikes down the big yokel; he is always dangerous, grim Shelton, but now particularly so, for he has lost ten pounds betted on the brave who sold himself to the yokels; but the outer ring is cleared; and now the second fight commences; it is between two champions of less renown than the others, but is perhaps not the worse on that account. A tall thin boy is fighting in the ring with a man somewhat under the middle size, with a frame of adamant; that’s a gallant boy! he’s a yokel, but he comes from Brummagem, and he does credit to his extraction; but his adversary has a frame of adamant: in what a strange light they fight, but who can wonder, on looking at that frightful cloud usurping now one half of heaven, and at the sun struggling with sulphurous vapour; the face of the boy, which is turned towards me, looks horrible in that light, but he is a brave boy, he strikes his foe on the forehead, and the report of the blow is like the sound of a hammer against a rock; but there is a rush and a roar over head, a wild commotion, the tempest is beginning to break loose; there’s wind and dust, a crash, rain and hail; is it possible to fight amidst such a commotion? yes! the fight goes on; again the boy strikes the man full on the brow, but it is of no use striking that man, his frame is of adamant. “Boy, thy strength is beginning to give way, and thou art becoming confused;” the man now goes to work, amidst rain and hail. “Boy, thou wilt not hold out ten minutes longer against rain, hail, and the blows of such an antagonist.”

And now the storm was at its height; the black thundercloud had broken into many, which assumed the wildest shapes and the strangest colours, some of them unspeakably glorious; the rain poured in a deluge, and more than one waterspout was seen at no great distance: an immense rabble is hurrying in one direction; a multitude of men of all ranks, peers and yokels, prizefighters and Jews, and the last came to plunder, and are now plundering amidst that wild confusion of hail and rain, men and horses, carts and carriages. But all hurry in one direction, through mud and mire; there’s a town only three miles distant, which is soon reached, and soon filled, it will not contain one-third of that mighty rabble; but there’s another town farther on⁠—the good old city is farther on, only twelve miles; what’s that! who’ll stay here? onward to the old town.

Hurry skurry, a mixed multitude of men and horses, carts and carriages, all in the direction of the old town; and, in the midst of all that mad throng, at a moment when the rain gushes were coming down with particular fury, and the artillery of the sky was pealing as I had never heard it peal before, I felt someone seize me by the arm⁠—I turned round and beheld Mr. Petulengro.

“I can’t hear you, Mr. Petulengro,” said I; for the thunder drowned the words which he appeared to be uttering.

“Dearginni,” I heard Mr. Petulengro say, “it thundereth. I was asking, brother, whether you believe in dukkeripens?”

“I do not, Mr. Petulengro; but this is strange weather to be asking me whether I believe in fortunes.”

“Grondinni,” said Mr. Petulengro, “it haileth. I believe in dukkeripens, brother.”

“And who has more right,” said I, “seeing that you live by them? But this tempest is truly horrible.”

“Dearginni, grondinni ta villaminni! It thundereth, it haileth, and also flameth,” said Mr. Petulengro. “Look up there, brother!”

I looked