Decameron on shipwreck
The people in the canyon did not know that they had escaped the disaster, thinking that the enemy was about to launch an attack, frightened people turned upside down, the women shouted loudly, the team was in chaos, it took a long time to get out of the canyon. I watched Arti's car disappear into the mouth of the canyon, and I think another man did the same. When all the refugees had fled and our soldiers had evacuated the canyon, Moiga and I stood up, and he turned to face me. I was surprised to find that in just twenty minutes, the man had aged a full twenty years. I couldn't say what I had scolded him for a moment. It was a long time before I asked him, "What are you going to do?"? Insubordination is a cardinal sin. Moiga shook his head and smiled, a smile that belonged to the old man, but it appeared on his face. To my question, he replied, "I failed to live up to the expectations of the head of the regiment and everyone. Do you think I still have the value of going back?" If someone else had said this, I would have thought he would have run away, but when Moiga said it, I immediately smelled something ominous. But my reaction is still late, a mountain wind blowing, I feel cold all over, and then look carefully, a dagger in his own chest. I rushed over, and experience told me that once the dagger was drawn, he would not live at once, so I could only carefully lay him flat on the ground and hold his right hand. Are you okay! Are you all right? I asked repeatedly. Moiga just smiled weakly and looked into his pocket. I knew what he meant. I took the harmonica out of his arms and put it to his lips. He raised his head and tried to put his mouth close to him, trying to blow something out, but as soon as he opened his mouth,iron nail machine, blood gushed out. I was scrambling to stop his bleeding, but there was no way to save him. Moiga died, and the harmonica was still covered with the blood he had spurted before he died, but his expression was serene, as if he had regained some of his old shadow. According to the custom of mercenary soldiers, I buried him on the spot and simply erected a wooden tablet, on which I wrote a few words crookedly: "There is a man sleeping here, who died for his lover." Perhaps poets have more flowery words to describe, but I can only think of such a simple eulogy. I buried the harmonica beside him, hoping that when we went to hell (we mercenaries always thought we should go to hell), he would be able to play "Strawberry Pie in Summer". Finally, I turned to his grave to say something, but my mind was blank, wire nail making machine ,Nail Making Machine manufacturers, and finally I only said, "You fool." And then turned around and left. I went back to the headquarters and reported the situation truthfully. Although the regiment was very angry, there was no way. Moiga had already killed himself, and the castle finally surrendered. The matter was forgotten by everyone. Now I'm afraid no one can think of such a person and such a thing except me. I don't know if this is a sad and beautiful love story, but love is really incredible. Mercenary Ryan finally finished his story, his voice hoarse, not knowing whether it was because he talked too much or because he was too sad. I went to the mainland this time to visit his grave and help him hoe the grass around him. Everyone was quiet, and there were small sighs in the crowd. Lantais, the bard, plucked the strings and said: A man born of love, a man who dies of love. Mr. Ryan, if you have a chance to visit his grave again, please help me bring this blessing to him. "Certainly, certainly. That's a very good idea." Ryan answered. Zoya, the female historian beside him, adjusted her glasses and sighed: "Love is always two mirrors decorated with rose and blue." I came out this time to collect such touching stories. Mr. Ryan, do you mind if I include this in my collection? "It's up to you, but I hope the name can be changed. I don't want Moiga to have any uneasiness underground." Several people were chatting, but Vicomte Catsiamrad, who was next to him, was a little annoyed. The two previous stories, though happy and sad, were aimed at nobles, both teasing and condemning.
He wanted to defend the nobleman, but he was afraid that he would attract more ridicule from everyone. Another round of food was served, and they all bowed their heads to eat, except the viscount, who was still thinking that if he did not go out to defend his noble reputation and tell a decent story, he would not be qualified to wear the noble coat of arms on his chest. So, when everyone had eaten enough, the viscount raised his glass, blessed the health of everyone here again, and said: "Just now we all heard two very beautiful stories, and I have deep respect for the two speakers.". However, for all the reasons known to all, I feel that there is a small fact that needs to be clarified: the aristocrats in the story just now are not real aristocrats. I am not talking about the so-called "royal canonization", but that they do not have that kind of elegant and deep temperament. A true aristocrat is a well-educated person with strong self-esteem and deep temperament. In order to make my point more convincing, please allow me to tell you a little story, a little story about the real aristocracy. The third story is the story of Viscount Kates Yamrad. I once found a rather old memoir from my father's study, with a "double moon" coat of arms on the cover, covered with dust, and the paper yellowed. The author of the memoir is a Count Walter von Winder, a traveler, who recorded some of his experiences and experiences in the mainland. I like the elegant style very much. Under the entry of 42 years old,Nail production machine, Sir Winder recorded an incident he encountered at Fort Anderson, which recorded how several nobles showed the noble qualities of calmness, decisiveness and discernment in the face of crisis. I can recite the whole chapter. Now I will relay this part of Sir Winder's memoirs to you. 3shardware.com
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