The phenomenon of mythistory has a continued tradition from Herodotus through Machiavelli to Scott, Burckhardt, Michelet and Kantorowicz, as the renowned historian Joseph Mali explains […]

‘Herkne, my broþer, herkne, by þy feiþ! / Herestow nat how þat þe cartere seiþ? / Hent it anon, for he haþ yeve it þee,/ Boþe hey and cart, and eek his caples þre.’

The sun came early, causing him to turn over in protest, but in going to sleep he had learned to vanquish light, and now the light could not rewake him.

At sight of this castle or cottage in the air, Rachel lighted up. The little whim had something tranquilizing and balmy. It was escape—flight from Gylingden—flight from Brandon—flight from Redman's Farm: they and all their hated associations would be far behind, and that awful page in her story, not torn out, indeed, but gummed down as it were, and no longer glaring and glowering in her eyes every moment of her waking life.