TheAngelsWeep - (EPUB全文下载)

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The Angels Weep
Wilbur Smith - B3 The Angels Weep
PART ONE.
Three horsemen rode out from the edge of the forest with a restrained eagerness that not even weary weeks of constant searching could dull.
They reined in, stirrup to stirrup, and looked down into another shallow valley. Each stalk of the dry winter grass bore a fluffy seed-head of a lovely pale rose colour, and the light breeze stirred them and made them dance, so that the herd of sable antelope in the gut of the valley seemed to float belly-deep in a bank of swirling pink mist.
There was a single herd bull. He stood almost fourteen hands tall at the withers. His satiny back and shoulders were black as a panther’s, but his belly and the intricate designs of his face-mask were the startling iridescent white of mother-of-pearl. His great ridged horns, curved like Saladin’s scimitar, swept baIck to touch his croup, and his neck was proudly arched as that of a blood Arabian stallion. Long ago hunted to extinction in his former southern ranges, this noblest of all the antelopes of Africa had come to symbolize for Ralph Ballantyne this wild and beautiful new land between the Limpopo and the wide green Zambezi rivers.
The great black bull stared arrogantly at the horsemen on the ridge above him, then snorted and tossed his warlike head. Thick dark mane flying, sharp hooves clattering over the stony ground, he led his chocolate-coloured brood mares at a gallop up and over the far ridge, leaving the watching men mute at their grandeur and their beauty.
Ralph Ballantyne was first to rouse himself and he turned in the saddle towards his father.
“Well, Papa,” he asked, “do you recognize any landmarks?” “It was more than thirty years ago,” Zouga. Ballantyne murmured, a little frown of concentration puckering an arrowhead in the centre of his forehead, “thirty years, and I was riddled with malaria. “Then he turned to the third rider, the little wizened Hottentot, his companion and servant since those far-off days. “What do you think, Jan Cheroot?”
The Hottentot lifted the battered regimental cap from his head, and smoothed the little peppercorns of pure white wool that covered his scalp. “Perhaps.-” Ralph cut in brusquely, “Perhaps it was all merely a fever dream.” The frown on his father’s handsome bearded features sharpened, and the scar upon his cheek flushed from boneporcelain to rose, while Jan Cheroot grinned with anticipation, when these two were together it was better entertainment than a cock-fight an ............

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