Lazarre
Mary Hartwell Catherwood
Lazarre
Mary Hartwell Catherwood
- The book begins: My name is Eagle, said the little girl. The boy said nothing. My name is Eagle, she repeated. Eagle de Ferrier. What is your name? Still the boy said nothing. She looked at him surprised, but checked her displeasure. He was about nine years old, while she was less than seven. By the dim light which sifted through the top of St. Bat’s Church he did not appear sullen. He sat on the flagstones as if dazed and stupefied, facing a blacksmith’s forge, which for many generations had occupied the north transept. A smith and some apprentices hammered measures that echoed with multiplied volume from the Norman roof; and the crimson fire made a spot vivid as blood.
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