This company does not carry dead weight and is constantly trimming the fat (unmotivated or unqualified employees) to ensure the working team has the resources · Advice to ManagementThe best thing management can do for employees at Bravado is to continue providing structured one-on-one attention ...

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Bravado is a global music merchandise company, and a subsidiary of Universal Music Group. Continue to article... Bravado represents artists in more than 40 countries and provides services including sales, licensing, branding, marketing and e-commerce.

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I am a recruiter at a software company. Recently a candidate messaged me asking about a sales job posted on Bravado that claimed we hired in Canada, asking me for more information. We do not hire in Canada, are not currently hiring SDRs, and we&#x27;ve never worked with Bravado.

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The second dynamic that Bravado is shaping is the importance of trust in the sales process. Day by day, B2B products are getting more and more complicated. Customers want to buy from someone whom they can trust. Eventually, a sale is just a human connection, and the salesperson- is just a proxy for the product and company...

Bravado: Helping people in Sales a career they deserve

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Bravado’s new funding and acquisition comes just months after the years-old company made its first dollar of revenue. At the end of 2021, Bravado launched its job marketplace to help enterprise companies land new talent. The startup tells me that it made its first acquisition in a deal to ...

A round, acquisition and revenue later, Bravado’s sales network ...

Compgauge to the Bravado portfolio. Compgauge helps thousands of sales professionals decide which employers to work for with comprehensive salary data, company reviews and interview insights. With this acquisition, Bravado now expands its Talent Marketplace to help salespeople discover if they ...

Bravado Raises $26M Led By Tiger Global, Acquires Compgauge To ...

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Many years ago when I was in my teens, I lived in a small Kentucky, USA town and one of my requirements in school was to learn Spanish. I enjoyed learning this new language, but I became discouraged. I struggled to understand the point of learning Spanish. A much younger me thought, "Why? No one here speaks Spanish... And I won't have the money or ability to travel in the near future or maybe even at all...." I think I voiced this to my 10th grade Spanish teacher, Susan Stucker, who tried to encourage me. She found a way for me to participate at little cost in a two week student exchange living with a host family in the northern suburbs of Madrid.\ “Estoy harta de tu queja.” I vaguely remember her saying this. “I am tired of your complaining.” My talkative teacher arranged for me to go on this trip. I never thought I would be going to Spain, but she found some unknown funds from generous donors. Suddenly, I was on an airplane to Spain with her and 5 or 6 other students.\ I was a good student and rather than being someone whose comportment my teacher worried about, she was encouraging me to be less uptight. \ “Try the sangria.”\ I know she thought this experience would change my life, but I don’t think she knew when that would happen. \ My Spanish was just a little better at the time than the other students. I remember being a human dictionary for them (a teen Google Translate of sorts) when they wanted to tell a shopkeeper what flavor of candy or ice cream they wanted. “Fresa.”   “Strawberry”\ I remember the smell of fried sardines the mother of my host family made. It was so delicious! And I recall the pounds I gained from the rich chorizo and chocolates she packed for me to take in a sack lunch. Though our student budget was slim, we did go into the urban areas of Madrid once or twice to see the Prado Museum and Fountain of Cibeles. I remember having very little pocket money. I did not buy any souvenirs. I was able to buy a Spanish chocolate candy bar to bring back home for a “best” friend who was disappointed when she saw it. “You got me a chocolate bar from Spain? That’s it?”\ I was not a hardy traveler and it took me a while to get over the strenuous emotional changes that happen sometimes with international travel. Wanderlust lay dormant for decades, but ultimately, I decided to travel again. My experiences led me to return to Spain this year. I have been studying Spanish part time and online for the past 2 years. My ability to understand and even speak Spanish has increased some. I have a greater appreciation for learning this and any language as well as the cultures of the Spanish speaking world. While I am far from fluent in Spanish even with continued study, I am improving and I greatly appreciate my high school teacher, Susan Stucker, for her encouragement and for broadening my worldview at an early age. I was worried about going on this trip but it was not because I did not want to go. I was experiencing a fear of leaving my comfort zone. My short trip with a tour group took me again to the northern suburbs of Spain and to the Prado Museum, but I also traveled to a few other cities and experienced a Spain much different than the one from my youth. Though it was not on the itinerary, someone on my trip convinced me to go with her and others to a bullfight. This would not have been something I chose to do ordinarily, but I tried to go into this experience with an open mind and see what I could learn. I got a ticket for the bullfight but because we had waited until the last minute to get seating, there were no seats together. I bought a seat far away from the others. As I tried to climb the stadium steps to my seat, I asked other spectators along the way for help finding my spot. I did sit in the wrong place (awkward as ever) and had to be notified by my neighbors. Ultimately, I found a spot to sit on the concrete and I watched the bullfight respectfully and peacefully, taking occasional pictures like a tourist, and speaking whatever garbled Spanish I knew with my kind neighbors to either side. I won’t pretend I know much about the history or actual meaning of bullfighting. I also can’t comment on the animal safety aspects of this because I don’t know much about that. I tried to show respect for the cultural event and come to the stadium with a beginner’s mind. With these caveats in mind, I just want to share what I felt internally and what I learned about confidence from the bullfight. The bullfight occurs in a large arena in a stadium. This arena seemed to me like a metaphor for life. Death likely occurs in the arena and comes for someone. There is a living being that will not get out of the arena alive. Will it be the bull? Will it be the matador? There are more humans in the arena that work together to stack the deck against the bull. It's not fair? Life isn’t fair. The circumstances that bring the bull and the matador to the arena are governed by chance as well. Both the matadors and the bull have the potential to kill each other in the arena. I found that I could not look away. The reason I could not look away was that I felt connected to the bull and matador in their actions to relive what I felt were the lessons of the arena, the lessons of life. In the arena, the matadors must distract the bull from hurting them and also actively seek the bull’s death. I was told that the bull must be naive to the ways of bullfighting to participate. During the process, the matador leads with confidence and hides whatever fear he might have of the bull’s size, aggression and ferocity. There is a potential for severe disability and even death if the bull harms the matador, but it is crucial that the matadors never break character. They work as a team to distract, confuse and wound the bull. The matadors play to an audience of hundreds drawing all eyes to them in a spectacle who bellow “Olé" in a pleased fashion if they are doing well. The 5 rules of the matador:

Lead with confidence
Never break character
Work in a team
All eyes on you In life, I can see how important it is to lead with confidence no matter how afraid you might feel. Confidence comes with experience and failure. Never break character to show vulnerability. It's only if you break character that anyone might notice if you messed up or that things have not gone as planned.  Good teamwork can prevent failure in many situations. Finally, there is always an audience that judges you on everything you try. I can only imagine that if I was the bull what I would learn. The bull is a tremendously strong and dangerous animal that I was told was bred to be aggressive. During the course of the bullfight, the matadors confuse and wound the bull several times. But even in its most reduced state, the bull has tremendous power to hurt the matador. First and third lesson of the bull: Never forget your power and It's not over until it's over. If the bull runs after the matadors, it takes the bait and begins the bullfight. If the bull does not run towards the matadors and is pacifist it will be set free. Second lesson of the bull: Don't take the bait. If the bull is able to gore and harm a matador, it can make a severe injury. Fourth lesson of the bull: Make your mark. And finally the more aggressively the bull attacks the matadors, the more they work in a team to cause death for the bull.  Fifth lesson of the bull: Aggression quickens death. 5 lessons of the bull

Never forget your power
Don’t take the bait
It's not over until it's over
Make your mark
Aggression quickens death Strangely, I felt during the bullfight that I was participating or that this experience was part of my life experience as well. I felt connected to the matadors and bulls. I tried to learn from the experience so that their sacrifices would teach me something. What I learned about confidence from this experience was so valuable to me. We are all dancing a dance of mindset when we are trying to be confident. We don’t want to show the enemy our fears so that we can vanquish them. Whether it's facing a micromanaging boss or an ex that hates your guts and is sashaying with their new girlfriend in your direction, there are people with whom and times at which it's important to show how unafraid you are. The bravado protects you more than actually not feeling afraid. Being genuine and vulnerable has its place, but so does hiding your flaws and exhibiting confidence like a shiny coat of armor. My trip to Spain was short, but what I learned from my experiences might last a long time.  I don't think my high school Spanish teacher would have expected that I would learn my Spanish lessons decades later. They are life lessons instead. I don’t think she expected her good deed to help me get to Spain for the student exchange would have this effect. But then again, neither did I. I got a Spanish candy bar as a souvenir this time - for myself. Many years ago when I was in my teens, I lived in a small Kentucky, USA town and one of my requirements in school was to learn Spanish. I enjoyed learning this new language, but I became discouraged. I struggled to understand the point of learning Spanish. A much younger me thought, "Why? No one here speaks Spanish... And I won't have the money or ability to travel in the near future or maybe even at all...." I think I voiced this to my 10th grade Spanish teacher, Susan Stucker, who tried to encourage me. She found a way for me to participate at little cost in a two week student exchange living with a host family in the northern suburbs of Madrid.\ “Estoy harta de tu queja.” I vaguely remember her saying this. “I am tired of your complaining.” “Estoy harta de tu queja.” I vaguely remember her saying this. “I am tired of your complaining.” “Estoy harta de tu queja.” I vaguely remember her saying this. “I am tired of your complaining.” My talkative teacher arranged for me to go on this trip. I never thought I would be going to Spain, but she found some unknown funds from generous donors. Suddenly, I was on an airplane to Spain with her and 5 or 6 other students.\ I was a good student and rather than being someone whose comportment my teacher worried about, she was encouraging me to be less uptight. \ “Try the sangria.”\ “Try the sangria.”\ I know she thought this experience would change my life, but I don’t think she knew when that would happen. \ My Spanish was just a little better at the time than the other students. I remember being a human dictionary for them (a teen Google Translate of sorts) when they wanted to tell a shopkeeper what flavor of candy or ice cream they wanted. “Fresa.”   “Strawberry”\ “Fresa.”   “Strawberry”\ I remember the smell of fried sardines the mother of my host family made. It was so delicious! And I recall the pounds I gained from the rich chorizo and chocolates she packed for me to take in a sack lunch. Though our student budget was slim, we did go into the urban areas of Madrid once or twice to see the Prado Museum and Fountain of Cibeles. I remember having very little pocket money. I did not buy any souvenirs. I was able to buy a Spanish chocolate candy bar to bring back home for a “best” friend who was disappointed when she saw it. “You got me a chocolate bar from Spain? That’s it?”\ “You got me a chocolate bar from Spain? That’s it?”\ I was not a hardy traveler and it took me a while to get over the strenuous emotional changes that happen sometimes with international travel. Wanderlust lay dormant for decades, but ultimately, I decided to travel again. My experiences led me to return to Spain this year. I have been studying Spanish part time and online for the past 2 years. My ability to understand and even speak Spanish has increased some. I have a greater appreciation for learning this and any language as well as the cultures of the Spanish speaking world. While I am far from fluent in Spanish even with continued study, I am improving and I greatly appreciate my high school teacher, Susan Stucker, for her encouragement and for broadening my worldview at an early age. I was worried about going on this trip but it was not because I did not want to go. I was experiencing a fear of leaving my comfort zone. My short trip with a tour group took me again to the northern suburbs of Spain and to the Prado Museum, but I also traveled to a few other cities and experienced a Spain much different than the one from my youth. Though it was not on the itinerary, someone on my trip convinced me to go with her and others to a bullfight. This would not have been something I chose to do ordinarily, but I tried to go into this experience with an open mind and see what I could learn. I got a ticket for the bullfight but because we had waited until the last minute to get seating, there were no seats together. I bought a seat far away from the others. As I tried to climb the stadium steps to my seat, I asked other spectators along the way for help finding my spot. I did sit in the wrong place (awkward as ever) and had to be notified by my neighbors. Ultimately, I found a spot to sit on the concrete and I watched the bullfight respectfully and peacefully, taking occasional pictures like a tourist, and speaking whatever garbled Spanish I knew with my kind neighbors to either side. I won’t pretend I know much about the history or actual meaning of bullfighting. I also can’t comment on the animal safety aspects of this because I don’t know much about that. I tried to show respect for the cultural event and come to the stadium with a beginner’s mind. With these caveats in mind, I just want to share what I felt internally and what I learned about confidence from the bullfight. The bullfight occurs in a large arena in a stadium. This arena seemed to me like a metaphor for life. Death likely occurs in the arena and comes for someone. There is a living being that will not get out of the arena alive. Will it be the bull? Will it be the matador? There are more humans in the arena that work together to stack the deck against the bull. It's not fair? Life isn’t fair. The circumstances that bring the bull and the matador to the arena are governed by chance as well. Both the matadors and the bull have the potential to kill each other in the arena. I found that I could not look away. The reason I could not look away was that I felt connected to the bull and matador in their actions to relive what I felt were the lessons of the arena, the lessons of life. In the arena, the matadors must distract the bull from hurting them and also actively seek the bull’s death. I was told that the bull must be naive to the ways of bullfighting to participate. During the process, the matador leads with confidence and hides whatever fear he might have of the bull’s size, aggression and ferocity. There is a potential for severe disability and even death if the bull harms the matador, but it is crucial that the matadors never break character. They work as a team to distract, confuse and wound the bull. The matadors play to an audience of hundreds drawing all eyes to them in a spectacle who bellow “Olé" in a pleased fashion if they are doing well. The 5 rules of the matador: Lead with confidence
Never break character
Work in a team
All eyes on you The 5 rules of the matador: Lead with confidence Never break character Work in a team All eyes on you Lead with confidence Never break character Work in a team All eyes on you In life, I can see how important it is to lead with confidence no matter how afraid you might feel. Confidence comes with experience and failure. Never break character to show vulnerability. It's only if you break character that anyone might notice if you messed up or that things have not gone as planned.  Good teamwork can prevent failure in many situations. Finally, there is always an audience that judges you on everything you try. I can only imagine that if I was the bull what I would learn. The bull is a tremendously strong and dangerous animal that I was told was bred to be aggressive. During the course of the bullfight, the matadors confuse and wound the bull several times. But even in its most reduced state, the bull has tremendous power to hurt the matador. First and third lesson of the bull: Never forget your power and It's not over until it's over. If the bull runs after the matadors, it takes the bait and begins the bullfight. If the bull does not run towards the matadors and is pacifist it will be set free. Second lesson of the bull: Don't take the bait. If the bull is able to gore and harm a matador, it can make a severe injury. Fourth lesson of the bull: Make your mark. And finally the more aggressively the bull attacks the matadors, the more they work in a team to cause death for the bull.  Fifth lesson of the bull: Aggression quickens death. 5 lessons of the bull Never forget your power
Don’t take the bait
It's not over until it's over
Make your mark
Aggression quickens death 5 lessons of the bull Never forget your power Don’t take the bait It's not over until it's over Make your mark Aggression quickens death Never forget your power Don’t take the bait It's not over until it's over Make your mark Aggression quickens death Strangely, I felt during the bullfight that I was participating or that this experience was part of my life experience as well. I felt connected to the matadors and bulls. I tried to learn from the experience so that their sacrifices would teach me something. What I learned about confidence from this experience was so valuable to me. We are all dancing a dance of mindset when we are trying to be confident. We don’t want to show the enemy our fears so that we can vanquish them. Whether it's facing a micromanaging boss or an ex that hates your guts and is sashaying with their new girlfriend in your direction, there are people with whom and times at which it's important to show how unafraid you are. The bravado protects you more than actually not feeling afraid. Being genuine and vulnerable has its place, but so does hiding your flaws and exhibiting confidence like a shiny coat of armor. My trip to Spain was short, but what I learned from my experiences might last a long time.  I don't think my high school Spanish teacher would have expected that I would learn my Spanish lessons decades later. They are life lessons instead. I don’t think she expected her good deed to help me get to Spain for the student exchange would have this effect. But then again, neither did I. I got a Spanish candy bar as a souvenir this time - for myself.

How fear can be transformed into confidence

The End of Everything 

দ্য এন্ড অফ এভরিথিং

Das Ende von allem

El fin de todo

La fin de tout

हर चीज़ का अंत

すべての終わり

모든 것의 끝

O fim de tudo

Конец всего

Herşeyin Sonu

Sự kết thúc của mọi thứ

一切的终结

THE TRANSFORMATION

John Grey Goes a Second Time to London

The early pages of this work that Dr Thorne was to be our hero

The Fugitive.

Personal Recollections of Joan of Arc — Volume 1 by Mark Twain, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book . She Delivers the Divine Command here She Delivers the Divine Command I HEARD my name called. It was Joan’s voice. It startled me, for how could she know I was there? I said to myself, it is part of the dream; it is all dream—voice, vision and all; the fairies have done this. So I crossed myself and pronounced the name of God, to break the enchantment. I knew I was awake now and free from the spell, for no spell can withstand this exorcism. Then I heard my name called again, and I stepped at once from under cover, and there indeed was Joan, but not looking as she had looked in the dream. For she was not crying now, but was looking as she had used to look a year and a half before, when her heart was light and her spirits high. Her old-time energy and fire were back, and a something like exaltation showed itself in her face and bearing. It was almost as if she had been in a trance all that time and had come awake again. Really, it was just as if she had been away and lost, and was come back to us at last; and I was so glad that I felt like running to call everybody and have them flock around her and give her welcome. I ran to her excited and said: “Ah, Joan, I’ve got such a wonderful thing to tell you about! You would never imagine it. I’ve had a dream, and in the dream I saw you right here where you are standing now, and—” But she put up her hand and said: “It was not a dream.” It gave me a shock, and I began to feel afraid again. “Not a dream?” I said, “how can you know about it, Joan?” “Are you dreaming now?” “I—I suppose not. I think I am not.” “Indeed you are not. I know you are not. And yow were not dreaming when you cut the mark in the tree.” I felt myself turning cold with fright, for now I knew of a certainty that I had not been dreaming, but had really been in the presence of a dread something not of this world. Then I remembered that my sinful feet were upon holy ground—the ground where that celestial shadow had rested. I moved quickly away, smitten to the bones with fear. Joan followed, and said: “Do not be afraid; indeed there is no need. Come with me. We will sit by the spring and I will tell you all my secret.” When she was ready to begin, I checked her and said: “First tell me this. You could not see me in the wood; how did you know I cut a mark in the tree?” “Wait a little; I will soon come to that; then you will see.” “But tell me one thing now; what was that awful shadow that I saw?” “I will tell you, but do not be disturbed; you are not in danger. It was the shadow of an archangel—Michael, the chief and lord of the armies of heaven.” I could but cross myself and tremble for having polluted that ground with my feet. “You were not afraid, Joan? Did you see his face—did you see his form?” “Yes; I was not afraid, because this was not the first time. I was afraid the first time.” “When was that, Joan?” “It is nearly three years ago now.” “So long? Have you seen him many times?” “Yes, many times.” “It is this, then, that has changed you; it was this that made you thoughtful and not as you were before. I see it now. Why did you not tell us about it?” “It was not permitted. It is permitted now, and soon I shall tell all. But only you, now. It must remain a secret for a few days still.” “Has none seen that white shadow before but me?” “No one. It has fallen upon me before when you and others were present, but none could see it. To-day it has been otherwise, and I was told why; but it will not be visible again to any.” “It was a sign to me, then—and a sign with a meaning of some kind?” “Yes, but I may not speak of that.” “Strange—that that dazzling light could rest upon an object before one’s eyes and not be visible.” “With it comes speech, also. Several saints come, attended by myriads of angels, and they speak to me; I hear their voices, but others do not. They are very dear to me—my Voices; that is what I call them to myself.” “Joan, what do they tell you?” “All manner of things—about France, I mean.” “What things have they been used to tell you?” She sighed, and said: “Disasters—only disasters, and misfortunes, and humiliation. There was naught else to foretell.” “They spoke of them to you beforehand?” “Yes. So that I knew what was going to happen before it happened. It made me grave—as you saw. It could not be otherwise. But always there was a word of hope, too. More than that: France was to be rescued, and made great and free again. But how and by whom—that was not told. Not until to-day.” As she said those last words a sudden deep glow shone in her eyes, which I was to see there many times in after-days when the bugles sounded the charge and learn to call it the battle-light. Her breast heaved, and the color rose in her face. “But to-day I know. God has chosen the meanest of His creatures for this work; and by His command, and in His protection, and by His strength, not mine, I am to lead His armies, and win back France, and set the crown upon the head of His servant that is Dauphin and shall be King.” I was amazed, and said: “You, Joan? You, a child, lead armies?” “Yes. For one little moment or two the thought crushed me; for it is as you say—I am only a child; a child and ignorant—ignorant of everything that pertains to war, and not fitted for the rough life of camps and the companionship of soldiers. But those weak moments passed; they will not come again. I am enlisted, I will not turn back, God helping me, till the English grip is loosed from the throat of France. My Voices have never told me lies, they have not lied to-day. They say I am to go to Robert de Baudricourt, governor of Vaucouleurs, and he will give me men-at-arms for escort and send me to the King. A year from now a blow will be struck which will be the beginning of the end, and the end will follow swiftly.” “Where will it be struck?” “My Voices have not said; nor what will happen this present year, before it is struck. It is appointed me to strike it, that is all I know; and follow it with others, sharp and swift, undoing in ten weeks England’s long years of costly labor, and setting the crown upon the Dauphin’s head—for such is God’s will; my Voices have said it, and shall I doubt it? No; it will be as they have said, for they say only that which is true.” These were tremendous sayings. They were impossibilities to my reason, but to my heart they rang true; and so, while my reason doubted, my heart believed—believed, and held fast to the belief from that day. Presently I said: “Joan, I believe the things which you have said, and now I am glad that I am to march with you to the great wars—that is, if it is with you I am to march when I go.” She looked surprised, and said: “It is true that you will be with me when I go to the wars, but how did you know?” “I shall march with you, and so also will Jean and Pierre, but not Jacques.” “All true—it is so ordered, as was revealed to me lately, but I did not know until to-day that the marching would be with me, or that I should march at all. How did you know these things?” I told her when it was that she had said them. But she did not remember about it. So then I knew that she had been asleep, or in a trance or an ecstasy of some kind, at that time. She bade me keep these and the other revelations to myself for the present, and I said I would, and kept the faith I promised. None who met Joan that day failed to notice the change that had come over her. She moved and spoke with energy and decision; there was a strange new fire in her eye, and also a something wholly new and remarkable in her carriage and in the set of her head. This new light in the eye and this new bearing were born of the authority and leadership which had this day been vested in her by the decree of God, and they asserted that authority as plainly as speech could have done it, yet without ostentation or bravado. This calm consciousness of command, and calm unconscious outward expression of it, remained with her thenceforth until her mission was accomplished. Like the other villagers, she had always accorded me the deference due my rank; but now, without word said on either side, she and I changed places; she gave orders, not suggestions. I received them with the deference due a superior, and obeyed them without comment. In the evening she said to me: “I leave before dawn. No one will know it but you. I go to speak with the governor of Vaucouleurs as commanded, who will despise me and treat me rudely, and perhaps refuse my prayer at this time. I go first to Burey, to persuade my uncle Laxart to go with me, it not being meet that I go alone. I may need you in Vaucouleurs; for if the governor will not receive me I will dictate a letter to him, and so must have some one by me who knows the art of how to write and spell the words. You will go from here to-morrow in the afternoon, and remain in Vaucouleurs until I need you.” I said I would obey, and she went her way. You see how clear a head she had, and what a just and level judgment. She did not order me to go with her; no, she would not subject her good name to gossiping remark. She knew that the governor, being a noble, would grant me, another noble, audience; but no, you see, she would not have that, either. A poor peasant-girl presenting a petition through a young nobleman—how would that look? She always protected her modesty from hurt; and so, for reward, she carried her good name unsmirched to the end. I knew what I must do now, if I would have her approval: go to Vaucouleurs, keep out of her sight, and be ready when wanted. I went the next afternoon, and took an obscure lodging; the next day I called at the castle and paid my respects to the governor, who invited me to dine with him at noon of the following day. He was an ideal soldier of the time; tall, brawny, gray-headed, rough, full of strange oaths acquired here and there and yonder in the wars and treasured as if they were decorations. He had been used to the camp all his life, and to his notion war was God’s best gift to man. He had his steel cuirass on, and wore boots that came above his knees, and was equipped with a huge sword; and when I looked at this martial figure, and heard the marvelous oaths, and guessed how little of poetry and sentiment might be looked for in this quarter, I hoped the little peasant-girl would not get the privilege of confronting this battery, but would have to content herself with the dictated letter. I came again to the castle the next day at noon, and was conducted to the great dining-hall and seated by the side of the governor at a small table which was raised a couple of steps higher than the general table. At the small table sat several other guests besides myself, and at the general table sat the chief officers of the garrison. At the entrance door stood a guard of halberdiers, in morion and breastplate. As for talk, there was but one topic, of course—the desperate situation of France. There was a rumor, some one said, that Salisbury was making preparations to march against Orleans. It raised a turmoil of excited conversation, and opinions fell thick and fast. Some believed he would march at once, others that he could not accomplish the investment before fall, others that the siege would be long, and bravely contested; but upon one thing all voices agreed: that Orleans must eventually fall, and with it France. With that, the prolonged discussion ended, and there was silence. Every man seemed to sink himself in his own thoughts, and to forget where he was. This sudden and profound stillness, where before had been so much animation, was impressive and solemn. Now came a servant and whispered something to the governor, who said: “Would talk with me?” “Yes, your Excellency.” “H’m! A strange idea, certainly. Bring them in.” It was Joan and her uncle Laxart. At the spectacle of the great people the courage oozed out of the poor old peasant and he stopped midway and would come no further, but remained there with his red nightcap crushed in his hands and bowing humbly here, there, and everywhere, stupefied with embarrassment and fear. But Joan came steadily forward, erect and self-possessed, and stood before the governor. She recognized me, but in no way indicated it. There was a buzz of admiration, even the governor contributing to it, for I heard him mutter, “By God’s grace, it is a beautiful creature!” He inspected her critically a moment or two, then said: “Well, what is your errand, my child?” “My message is to you, Robert de Baudricourt, governor of Vaucouleurs, and it is this: that you will send and tell the Dauphin to wait and not give battle to his enemies, for God will presently send him help.” This strange speech amazed the company, and many murmured, “The poor young thing is demented.” The governor scowled, and said: “What nonsense is this? The King—or the Dauphin, as you call him—needs no message of that sort. He will wait, give yourself no uneasiness as to that. What further do you desire to say to me?” “This. To beg that you will give me an escort of men-at-arms and send me to the Dauphin.” “What for?” “That he may make me his general, for it is appointed that I shall drive the English out of France, and set the crown upon his head.” “What—you? Why, you are but a child!” “Yet am I appointed to do it, nevertheless.” “Indeed! And when will all this happen?” “Next year he will be crowned, and after that will remain master of France.” There was a great and general burst of laughter, and when it had subsided the governor said: “Who has sent you with these extravagant messages?” “My Lord.” “What Lord?” “The King of Heaven.” Many murmured, “Ah, poor thing, poor thing!” and others, “Ah, her mind is but a wreck!” The governor hailed Laxart, and said: “Harkye!—take this mad child home and whip her soundly. That is the best cure for her ailment.” As Joan was moving away she turned and said, with simplicity: “You refuse me the soldiers, I know not why, for it is my Lord that has commanded you. Yes, it is He that has made the command; therefore I must come again, and yet again; then I shall have the men-at-arms.” There was a great deal of wondering talk, after she was gone; and the guards and servants passed the talk to the town, the town passed it to the country; Domremy was already buzzing with it when we got back. About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. Mark Twain (2004). Personal Recollections of Joan of Arc — Volume 1. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved October 2022 https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/2874/pg2874-images.html This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at , located at . www.gutenberg.org https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html

She Delivers the Divine Command

The Mysterious Stranger, and Other Stories by Mark Twain, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book . Chapter IX here Chapter IX It was wonderful, the mastery Satan had over time and distance. For him they did not exist. He called them human inventions, and said they were artificialities. We often went to the most distant parts of the globe with him, and stayed weeks and months, and yet were gone only a fraction of a second, as a rule. You could prove it by the clock. One day when our people were in such awful distress because the witch commission were afraid to proceed against the astrologer and Father Peter's household, or against any, indeed, but the poor and the friendless, they lost patience and took to witch-hunting on their own score, and began to chase a born lady who was known to have the habit of curing people by devilish arts, such as bathing them, washing them, and nourishing them instead of bleeding them and purging them through the ministrations of a barber-surgeon in the proper way. She came flying down, with the howling and cursing mob after her, and tried to take refuge in houses, but the doors were shut in her face. They chased her more than half an hour, we following to see it, and at last she was exhausted and fell, and they caught her. They dragged her to a tree and threw a rope over the limb, and began to make a noose in it, some holding her, meantime, and she crying and begging, and her young daughter looking on and weeping, but afraid to say or do anything. They hanged the lady, and I threw a stone at her, although in my heart I was sorry for her; but all were throwing stones and each was watching his neighbor, and if I had not done as the others did it would have been noticed and spoken of. Satan burst out laughing. All that were near by turned upon him, astonished and not pleased. It was an ill time to laugh, for his free and scoffing ways and his supernatural music had brought him under suspicion all over the town and turned many privately against him. The big blacksmith called attention to him now, raising his voice so that all should hear, and said: “What are you laughing at? Answer! Moreover, please explain to the company why you threw no stone.” “Are you sure I did not throw a stone?” “Yes. You needn't try to get out of it; I had my eye on you.” “And I—I noticed you!” shouted two others. “Three witnesses,” said Satan: “Mueller, the blacksmith; Klein, the butcher's man; Pfeiffer, the weaver's journeyman. Three very ordinary liars. Are there any more?” “Never mind whether there are others or not, and never mind about what you consider us—three's enough to settle your matter for you. You'll prove that you threw a stone, or it shall go hard with you.” “That's so!” shouted the crowd, and surged up as closely as they could to the center of interest. “And first you will answer that other question,” cried the blacksmith, pleased with himself for being mouthpiece to the public and hero of the occasion. “What are you laughing at?” Satan smiled and answered, pleasantly: “To see three cowards stoning a dying lady when they were so near death themselves.” You could see the superstitious crowd shrink and catch their breath, under the sudden shock. The blacksmith, with a show of bravado, said: “Pooh! What do you know about it?” “I? Everything. By profession I am a fortune-teller, and I read the hands of you three—and some others—when you lifted them to stone the woman. One of you will die to-morrow week; another of you will die to-night; the third has but five minutes to live—and yonder is the clock!” It made a sensation. The faces of the crowd blanched, and turned mechanically toward the clock. The butcher and the weaver seemed smitten with an illness, but the blacksmith braced up and said, with spirit: “It is not long to wait for prediction number one. If it fails, young master, you will not live a whole minute after, I promise you that.” No one said anything; all watched the clock in a deep stillness which was impressive. When four and a half minutes were gone the blacksmith gave a sudden gasp and clapped his hands upon his heart, saying, “Give me breath! Give me room!” and began to sink down. The crowd surged back, no one offering to support him, and he fell lumbering to the ground and was dead. The people stared at him, then at Satan, then at one another; and their lips moved, but no words came. Then Satan said: “Three saw that I threw no stone. Perhaps there are others; let them speak.” It struck a kind of panic into them, and, although no one answered him, many began to violently accuse one another, saying, “You said he didn't throw,” and getting for reply, “It is a lie, and I will make you eat it!” And so in a moment they were in a raging and noisy turmoil, and beating and banging one another; and in the midst was the only indifferent one—the dead lady hanging from her rope, her troubles forgotten, her spirit at peace. So we walked away, and I was not at ease, but was saying to myself, “He told them he was laughing at them, but it was a lie—he was laughing at me.” That made him laugh again, and he said, “Yes, I was laughing at you, because, in fear of what others might report about you, you stoned the woman when your heart revolted at the act—but I was laughing at the others, too.” “Why?” “Because their case was yours.” “How is that?” “Well, there were sixty-eight people there, and sixty-two of them had no more desire to throw a stone than you had.” “Satan!” “Oh, it's true. I know your race. It is made up of sheep. It is governed by minorities, seldom or never by majorities. It suppresses its feelings and its beliefs and follows the handful that makes the most noise. Sometimes the noisy handful is right, sometimes wrong; but no matter, the crowd follows it. The vast majority of the race, whether savage or civilized, are secretly kind-hearted and shrink from inflicting pain, but in the presence of the aggressive and pitiless minority they don't dare to assert themselves. Think of it! One kind-hearted creature spies upon another, and sees to it that he loyally helps in iniquities which revolt both of them. Speaking as an expert, I know that ninety-nine out of a hundred of your race were strongly against the killing of witches when that foolishness was first agitated by a handful of pious lunatics in the long ago. And I know that even to-day, after ages of transmitted prejudice and silly teaching, only one person in twenty puts any real heart into the harrying of a witch. And yet apparently everybody hates witches and wants them killed. Some day a handful will rise up on the other side and make the most noise—perhaps even a single daring man with a big voice and a determined front will do it—and in a week all the sheep will wheel and follow him, and witch-hunting will come to a sudden end. “Monarchies, aristocracies, and religions are all based upon that large defect in your race—the individual's distrust of his neighbor, and his desire, for safety's or comfort's sake, to stand well in his neighbor's eye. These institutions will always remain, and always flourish, and always oppress you, affront you, and degrade you, because you will always be and remain slaves of minorities. There was never a country where the majority of the people were in their secret hearts loyal to any of these institutions.” I did not like to hear our race called sheep, and said I did not think they were. “Still, it is true, lamb,” said Satan. “Look at you in war—what mutton you are, and how ridiculous!” “In war? How?” “There has never been a just one, never an honorable one—on the part of the instigator of the war. I can see a million years ahead, and this rule will never change in so many as half a dozen instances. The loud little handful—as usual—will shout for the war. The pulpit will—warily and cautiously—object—at first; the great, big, dull bulk of the nation will rub its sleepy eyes and try to make out why there should be a war, and will say, earnestly and indignantly, “It is unjust and dishonorable, and there is no necessity for it.” Then the handful will shout louder. A few fair men on the other side will argue and reason against the war with speech and pen, and at first will have a hearing and be applauded; but it will not last long; those others will outshout them, and presently the anti-war audiences will thin out and lose popularity. Before long you will see this curious thing: the speakers stoned from the platform, and free speech strangled by hordes of furious men who in their secret hearts are still at one with those stoned speakers—as earlier—but do not dare to say so. And now the whole nation—pulpit and all—will take up the war-cry, and shout itself hoarse, and mob any honest man who ventures to open his mouth; and presently such mouths will cease to open. Next the statesmen will invent cheap lies, putting the blame upon the nation that is attacked, and every man will be glad of those conscience-soothing falsities, and will diligently study them, and refuse to examine any refutations of them; and thus he will by and by convince himself that the war is just, and will thank God for the better sleep he enjoys after this process of grotesque self-deception.” About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. Mark Twain (2008). The Mysterious Stranger, and Other Stories. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved October 2022 https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/3186/pg3186-images.html This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at , located at . www.gutenberg.org https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html

The mastery Satan had over time and distance

The Mysterious Island by Jules Verne, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book . Chapter II here Chapter II There was no longer any doubt as to the pirates’ intentions. They had dropped anchor at a short distance from the island, and it was evident that the next day by means of their boats they purposed to land on the beach! Cyrus Harding and his companions were ready to act, but, determined though they were, they must not forget to be prudent. Perhaps their presence might still be concealed in the event of the pirates contenting themselves with landing on the shore without examining the interior of the island. It might be, indeed, that their only intention was to obtain fresh water from the Mercy, and it was not impossible that the bridge, thrown across a mile and a half from the mouth, and the manufactory at the Chimneys might escape their notice. But why was that flag hoisted at the brig’s peak? What was that shot fired for? Pure bravado doubtless, unless it was a sign of the act of taking possession. Harding knew now that the vessel was well armed. And what had the colonists of Lincoln Island to reply to the pirates’ guns? A few muskets only. “However,” observed Cyrus Harding, “here we are in an impregnable position. The enemy cannot discover the mouth of the outlet, now that it is hidden under reeds and grass, and consequently it would be impossible for them to penetrate into Granite House.” “But our plantations, our poultry-yard, our corral, all, everything!” exclaimed Pencroft, stamping his foot. “They may spoil everything, destroy everything in a few hours!” “Everything, Pencroft,” answered Harding, “and we have no means of preventing them.” “Are they numerous? that is the question,” said the reporter. “If they are not more than a dozen, we shall be able to stop them, but forty, fifty, more perhaps!” “Captain Harding,” then said Ayrton, advancing towards the engineer, “will you give me leave?” “For what, my friend?” “To go to that vessel to find out the strength of her crew.” “But Ayrton—” answered the engineer, hesitating, “you will risk your life—” “Why not, sir?” “That is more than your duty.” “I have more than my duty to do,” replied Ayrton. “Will you go to the ship in the boat?” asked Gideon Spilett. “No, sir, but I will swim. A boat would be seen where a man may glide between wind and water.” “Do you know that the brig is a mile and a quarter from the shore?” said Herbert. “I am a good swimmer, Mr. Herbert.” “I tell you it is risking your life,” said the engineer. “That is no matter,” answered Ayrton. “Captain Harding, I ask this as a favor. Perhaps it will be a means of raising me in my own eyes!” “Go, Ayrton,” replied the engineer, who felt sure that a refusal would have deeply wounded the former convict, now become an honest man. “I will accompany you,” said Pencroft. “You mistrust me!” said Ayrton quickly. Then more humbly,— “Alas!” “No! no!” exclaimed Harding with animation, “no, Ayrton, Pencroft does not mistrust you. You interpret his words wrongly.” “Indeed,” returned the sailor, “I only propose to accompany Ayrton as far as the islet. It may be, although it is scarcely possible, that one of these villains has landed, and in that case two men will not be too many to hinder him from giving the alarm. I will wait for Ayrton on the islet, and he shall go alone to the vessel, since he has proposed to do so.” These things agreed to, Ayrton made preparations for his departure. His plan was bold, but it might succeed, thanks to the darkness of the night. Once arrived at the vessel’s side, Ayrton, holding on to the main chains, might reconnoiter the number and perhaps overhear the intentions of the pirates. Ayrton and Pencroft, followed by their companions, descended to the beach. Ayrton undressed and rubbed himself with grease, so as to suffer less from the temperature of the water, which was still cold. He might, indeed, be obliged to remain in it for several hours. Pencroft and Neb, during this time, had gone to fetch the boat, moored a few hundred feet higher up, on the bank of the Mercy, and by the time they returned, Ayrton was ready to start. A coat was thrown over his shoulders, and the settlers all came round him to press his hand. Ayrton then shoved off with Pencroft in the boat. It was half-past ten in the evening when the two adventurers disappeared in the darkness. Their companions returned to wait at the Chimneys. The channel was easily traversed, and the boat touched the opposite shore of the islet. This was not done without precaution, for fear lest the pirates might be roaming about there. But after a careful survey, it was evident that the islet was deserted. Ayrton then, followed by Pencroft, crossed it with a rapid step, scaring the birds nestled in the holes of the rocks; then, without hesitating, he plunged into the sea, and swam noiselessly in the direction of the ship, in which a few lights had recently appeared, showing her exact situation. As to Pencroft, he crouched down in a cleft of the rock, and awaited the return of his companion. In the meanwhile, Ayrton, swimming with a vigorous stroke, glided through the sheet of water without producing the slightest ripple. His head just emerged above it and his eyes were fixed on the dark hull of the brig, from which the lights were reflected in the water. He thought only of the duty which he had promised to accomplish, and nothing of the danger which he ran, not only on board the ship, but in the sea, often frequented by sharks. The current bore him along and he rapidly receded from the shore. Half an hour afterwards, Ayrton, without having been either seen or heard, arrived at the ship and caught hold of the main-chains. He took breath, then, hoisting himself up, he managed to reach the extremity of the cutwater. There were drying several pairs of sailors’ trousers. He put on a pair. Then settling himself firmly, he listened. They were not sleeping on board the brig. On the contrary, they were talking, singing, laughing. And these were the sentences, accompanied with oaths, which principally struck Ayrton:— “Our brig is a famous acquisition.” “She sails well, and merits her name of the ‘Speedy.’” “She would show all the navy of Norfolk a clean pair of heels.” “Hurrah for her captain!” “Hurrah for Bob Harvey!” What Ayrton felt when he overheard this fragment of conversation may be understood when it is known that in this Bob Harvey he recognized one of his old Australian companions, a daring sailor, who had continued his criminal career. Bob Harvey had seized, on the shores of Norfolk Island this brig, which was loaded with arms, ammunition, utensils, and tools of all sorts, destined for one of the Sandwich Islands. All his gang had gone on board, and pirates after having been convicts, these wretches, more ferocious than the Malays themselves, scoured the Pacific, destroying vessels, and massacring their crews. The convicts spoke loudly, they recounted their deeds, drinking deeply at the same time, and this is what Ayrton gathered. The actual crew of the “Speedy” was composed solely of English prisoners, escaped from Norfolk Island. Here it may be well to explain what this island was. In 29deg 2’ south latitude, and 165deg 42’ east longitude, to the east of Australia, is found a little island, six miles in circumference, overlooked by Mount Pitt, which rises to a height of 1,100 feet above the level of the sea. This is Norfolk Island, once the seat of an establishment in which were lodged the most intractable convicts from the English penitentiaries. They numbered 500, under an iron discipline, threatened with terrible punishments, and were guarded by 150 soldiers, and 150 employed under the orders of the governor. It would be difficult to imagine a collection of greater ruffians. Sometimes,—although very rarely,—notwithstanding the extreme surveillance of which they were the object, many managed to escape, and seizing vessels which they surprised, they infested the Polynesian Archipelagoes. Thus had Bob Harvey and his companions done. Thus had Ayrton formerly wished to do. Bob Harvey had seized the brig “Speedy,” anchored in sight of Norfolk Island; the crew had been massacred; and for a year this ship had scoured the Pacific, under the command of Harvey, now a pirate, and well known to Ayrton! The convicts were, for the most part, assembled under the poop; but a few, stretched on the deck, were talking loudly. The conversation still continued amid shouts and libations. Ayrton learned that chance alone had brought the “Speedy” in sight of Lincoln Island; Bob Harvey had never yet set foot on it; but, as Cyrus Harding had conjectured, finding this unknown land in his course, its position being marked on no chart, he had formed the project of visiting it, and, if he found it suitable, of making it the brig’s headquarters. As to the black flag hoisted at the “Speedy’s” peak, and the gun which had been fired, in imitation of men-of-war when they lower their colors, it was pure piratical bravado. It was in no way a signal, and no communication yet existed between the convicts and Lincoln Island. The settlers’ domain was now menaced with terrible danger. Evidently the island, with its water, its harbor, its resources of all kinds so increased in value by the colonists, and the concealment afforded by Granite House, could not but be convenient for the convicts; in their hands it would become an excellent place of refuge, and, being unknown, it would assure them, for a long time perhaps, impunity and security. Evidently, also, the lives of the settlers would not be respected, and Bob Harvey and his accomplices’ first care would be to massacre them without mercy. Harding and his companions had, therefore, not even the choice of flying and hiding themselves in the island, since the convicts intended to reside there, and since, in the event of the “Speedy” departing on an expedition, it was probable that some of the crew would remain on shore, so as to settle themselves there. Therefore, it would be necessary to fight, to destroy every one of these scoundrels, unworthy of pity, and against whom any means would be right. So thought Ayrton, and he well knew that Cyrus Harding would be of his way of thinking. But was resistance and, in the last place, victory possible? That would depend on the equipment of the brig, and the number of men which she carried. This Ayrton resolved to learn at any cost, and as an hour after his arrival the vociferations had begun to die away, and as a large number of the convicts were already buried in a drunken sleep, Ayrton did not hesitate to venture onto the “Speedy’s” deck, which the extinguished lanterns now left in total darkness. He hoisted himself onto the cutwater, and by the bowsprit arrived at the forecastle. Then, gliding among the convicts stretched here and there, he made the round of the ship, and found that the “Speedy” carried four guns, which would throw shot of from eight to ten pounds in weight. He found also, on touching them that these guns were breech-loaders. They were therefore, of modern make, easily used, and of terrible effect. As to the men lying on the deck, they were about ten in number, but it was to be supposed that more were sleeping down below. Besides, by listening to them, Ayrton had understood that there were fifty on board. That was a large number for the six settlers of Lincoln Island to contend with! But now, thanks to Ayrton’s devotion, Cyrus Harding would not be surprised, he would know the strength of his adversaries, and would make his arrangements accordingly. There was nothing more for Ayrton to do but to return, and render to his companions an account of the mission with which he had charged himself, and he prepared to regain the bows of the brig, so that he might let himself down into the water. But to this man, whose wish was, as he had said, to do more than his duty, there came an heroic thought. This was to sacrifice his own life, but save the island and the colonists. Cyrus Harding evidently could not resist fifty ruffians, all well armed, who, either by penetrating by main force into Granite House, or by starving out the besieged, could obtain from them what they wanted. And then he thought of his preservers—those who had made him again a man, and an honest mm, those to whom he owed all—murdered without pity, their works destroyed, their island turned into a pirates’ den! He said to himself that he, Ayrton, was the principal cause of so many disasters, since his old companion, Bob Harvey, had but realized his own plans, and a feeling of horror took possession of him. Then he was seized with an irresistible desire to blow up the brig and with her, all whom she had on board. He would perish in the explosion, but he would have done his duty. Ayrton did not hesitate. To reach the powder-room, which is always situated in the after-part of a vessel, was easy. There would be no want of powder in a vessel which followed such a trade, and a spark would be enough to destroy it in an instant. Ayrton stole carefully along the between-decks, strewn with numerous sleepers, overcome more by drunkenness than sleep. A lantern was lighted at the foot of the mainmast, round which was hung a gun-rack, furnished with weapons of all sorts. Ayrton took a revolver from the rack, and assured himself that it was loaded and primed. Nothing more was needed to accomplish the work of destruction. He then glided towards the stern, so as to arrive under the brig’s poop at the powder-magazine. It was difficult to proceed along the dimly lighted deck without stumbling over some half-sleeping convict, who retorted by oaths and kicks. Ayrton was, therefore, more than once obliged to halt. But at last he arrived at the partition dividing the aftercabin, and found the door opening into the magazine itself. Ayrton, compelled to force it open, set to work. It was a difficult operation to perform without noise, for he had to break a padlock. But under his vigorous hand, the padlock broke, and the door was open. At that moment a hand was laid on Ayrton’s shoulder. “What are you doing here?” asked a tall man, in a harsh voice, who, standing in the shadow, quickly threw the light of a lantern in Ayrton’s face. Ayrton drew back. In the rapid flash of the lantern, he had recognized his former accomplice, Bob Harvey, who could not have known him, as he must have thought Ayrton long since dead. “What are you doing here?” again said Bob Harvey, seizing Ayrton by the waistband. But Ayrton, without replying, wrenched himself from his grasp and attempted to rush into the magazine. A shot fired into the midst of the powder-casks, and all would be over! “Help, lads!” shouted Bob Harvey. At his shout two or three pirates awoke, jumped up, and, rushing on Ayrton, endeavored to throw him down. He soon extricated himself from their grasp. He fired his revolver, and two of the convicts fell, but a blow from a knife which he could not ward off made a gash in his shoulder. Ayrton perceived that he could no longer hope to carry out his project. Bob Harvey had reclosed the door of the powder-magazine, and a movement on the deck indicated a general awakening of the pirates. Ayrton must reserve himself to fight at the side of Cyrus Harding. There was nothing for him but flight! But was flight still possible? It was doubtful, yet Ayrton resolved to dare everything in order to rejoin his companions. Four barrels of the revolver were still undischarged. Two were fired—one, aimed at Bob Harvey, did not wound him, or at any rate only slightly, and Ayrton, profiting by the momentary retreat of his adversaries, rushed towards the companion-ladder to gain the deck. Passing before the lantern, he smashed it with a blow from the butt of his revolver. A profound darkness ensued, which favored his flight. Two or three pirates, awakened by the noise, were descending the ladder at the same moment. A fifth shot from Ayrton laid one low, and the others drew back, not understanding what was going on. Ayrton was on deck in two bounds, and three seconds later, having discharged his last barrel in the face of a pirate who was about to seize him by the throat, he leaped over the bulwarks into the sea. Ayrton had not made six strokes before shots were splashing around him like hail. What were Pencroft’s feelings, sheltered under a rock on the islet! What were those of Harding, the reporter, Herbert, and Neb, crouched in the Chimneys, when they heard the reports on board the brig! They rushed out on to the beach, and, their guns shouldered, they stood ready to repel any attack. They had no doubt about it themselves! Ayrton, surprised by the pirates, had been murdered, and, perhaps, the wretches would profit by the night to make a descent on the island! Half an hour was passed in terrible anxiety. The firing had ceased, and yet neither Ayrton nor Pencroft had reappeared. Was the islet invaded? Ought they not to fly to the help of Ayrton and Pencroft? But how? The tide being high at that time, rendered the channel impassable. The boat was not there! We may imagine the horrible anxiety which took possession of Harding and his companions! At last, towards half-past twelve, a boat, carrying two men, touched the beach. It was Ayrton, slightly wounded in the shoulder, and Pencroft, safe and sound, whom their friends received with open arms. All immediately took refuge in the Chimneys. There Ayrton recounted all that had passed, even to his plan for blowing up the brig, which he had attempted to put into execution. All hands were extended to Ayrton, who did not conceal from them that their situation was serious. The pirates had been alarmed. They knew that Lincoln Island was inhabited. They would land upon it in numbers and well armed. They would respect nothing. Should the settlers fall into their hands, they must expect no mercy! “Well, we shall know how to die!” said the reporter. “Let us go in and watch,” answered the engineer. “Have we any chance of escape, captain?” asked the sailor. “Yes, Pencroft.” “Hum! six against fifty!” “Yes! six! without counting—” “Who?” asked Pencroft. Cyrus did not reply, but pointed upwards. About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. Jules Verne (1998). The Mysterious Island. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved October 2022 https://www.gutenberg.org/files/1268/1268-h/1268-h.htm This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at , located at . www.gutenberg.org https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html

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