When the World Shook | Page 3

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Created by Anthony Matonak, [email protected]

When the World Shook
Being an Account of the Great Adventure of Bastin, Bickley and
Arbuthnot
by H. Rider Haggard

DEDICATION
Ditchingham, 1918. MY DEAR CURZON,
More than thirty years ago you tried to protect me, then a stranger to
you, from one of the falsest and most malignant accusations ever made
against a writer.
So complete was your exposure of the methods of those at work to
blacken a person whom they knew to be innocent, that, as you will
remember, they refused to publish your analysis which destroyed their
charges and, incidentally, revealed their motives.
Although for this reason vindication came otherwise, your kindness is
one that I have never forgotten, since, whatever the immediate issue of
any effort, in the end it is the intention that avails.
Therefore in gratitude and memory I ask you to accept this romance, as
I know that you do not disdain the study of romance in the intervals of
your Imperial work.
The application of its parable to our state and possibilities-- beneath or
beyond these glimpses of the moon--I leave to your discernment.
Believe me, Ever sincerely yours, H. RIDER HAGGARD.

To The Earl Curzon of Kedleston, K.G.

CONTENTS
1. ARBUTHNOT DESCRIBES HIMSELF
2. BASTIN AND BICKLEY

3. NATALIE
4. DEATH AND DEPARTURE
5. THE CYCLONE
6. LAND
7. THE OROFENANS
8. BASTIN ATTEMPTS THE MARTYR'S CROWN
9. THE ISLAND IN THE LAKE
10. THE DWELLERS IN THE TOMB
11. RESURRECTION
12. TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTY THOUSAND YEARS!
13. ORO SPEAKS AND BASTIN ARGUES
14. THE UNDER-WORLD
15. ORO IN HIS HOUSE
16. VISIONS OF THE PAST
17. YVA EXPLAINS
18. THE ACCIDENT
19. THE PROPOSALS OF BASTIN AND BICKLEY
20. ORO AND ARBUTHNOT TRAVEL BY NIGHT
21. LOVE'S ETERNAL ALTAR
22. THE COMMAND

23. IN THE TEMPLE OF FATE
24. THE CHARIOT OF THE PIT
25. SACRIFICE
26. TOMMY
27. BASTIN DISCOVERS A RESEMBLANCE
28. NOTE BY J. R. BICKLEY, M.R.C.S.

When the World Shook
Chapter I
Arbuthnot Describes Himself
I suppose that I, Humphrey Arbuthnot, should begin this history in
which Destiny has caused me to play so prominent a part, with some
short account of myself and of my circumstances.
I was born forty years ago in this very Devonshire village in which I
write, but not in the same house. Now I live in the Priory, an ancient
place and a fine one in its way, with its panelled rooms, its beautiful
gardens where, in this mild climate, in addition to our own, flourish so
many plants which one would only expect to find in countries that lie
nearer to the sun, and its green, undulating park studded with great
timber trees. The view, too, is perfect; behind and around the rich
Devonshire landscape with its hills and valleys and its scarped faces of
red sandstone, and at a distance in front, the sea. There are little towns
quite near too, that live for the most part on visitors, but these are so
hidden away by the contours of the ground that from the Priory one
cannot see them. Such is Fulcombe where I live, though for obvious
reasons I do not give it its real name.
Many years ago my father, the Rev. Humphrey Arbuthnot, whose only

child I am, after whom also I am named Humphrey, was the vicar of
this place with which our family is said to have some rather vague
hereditary connection. If so, it was severed in the Carolian times
because my ancestors fought on the side of Parliament.
My father was a recluse, and a widower, for my mother, a Scotswoman,
died at or shortly after my birth. Being