Chapter 17

As Hugh de Mertoun Rode

When he rode back upon the road which led towards Gloucestershire,
'twas early June again, as it had been when he journeyed to Camylott
with Mr. Fox attending. The sky was blue once more, there was the scent
of sweet wild things in the air, birds twittered in the hedgerows and
skylarks sang on high; all was in full fair leafage and full fair life.
This time Mr. Fox was not with him, he riding alone save for his
servants, following at some distance, for in truth 'twas his wish to be
solitary, and he rode somewhat like a man in a dream.

"There is no land like England," he said, "there are no such meadows
elsewhere, no such hedgerows, no such birds, and no such soft fleeced
white clouds in the blue sky." In truth, it seemed so to him, as it
seems always to an Englishman returning from foreign lands. The
thatched cottages spoke of homely comfort, the sound of the village
church bells was like a prayer, the rustics, as they looked up from
work in the fields to pull their forelocks as he rode by them, seemed
to wear kindlier looks upon their sunburnt faces than he had seen in
other countries.

"But," he said to himself, and smiled in saying it, "it is because I am
a happy man, and am living like one who dreams. Men have ridden before
on such errands. Hugh de Mertoun rode so four hundred years gone, to a
grey castle in the far north of Scotland, to make his suit to a fair
maiden whose beauties he had but heard rumour of and whose face he had
never seen. He rode through a savage country, and fought his way to her
against axe and spear. But when he reached her she served him in her
father's banquet hall, and in years after used to kiss the scars left
by his wounds, and sing at her harp the song of his journey to woo her.
But he had not known her since the time of her birth, and been haunted
by her until her womanhood."

To Dunstan's Wolde in Warwickshire he rode, where he was to be a guest,
and sometimes he reproached himself that he was by natural habit of
such reserve that in all their converse together he had never felt that
he could speak his thoughts to his kinsman on the one subject they had
dwelt most upon. During the last two years he had realised how few
words he had uttered on this subject even in the days before he had
known the reason for his tendency to silence. At times when
Dunstanwolde had spoken with freedom and at length of circumstances
which attracted the comments of all, he himself had been more
frequently listener than talker, and had been wont to sit in attentive
silence, making his reflections later to himself when he was alone.
After the day on which he had lost himself upon Sir Christopher
Crowell's land