not giving them time to put on their stockings, and forced them to carry
what of the Goods they could to _Awmar_ (a creek), where they carried
off Stolen Sheep and Plundered Goods with my two eldest brothers. When
the war was ended the triumphant Parliamentarians attempted to revenge
themselves on their sturdy enemy, and searched the country for 'Bishop
_Lane_, the _Traytor_,' who was driven to hide in his church tower. For
three or four months his people secretly brought him food, and he was
then able to make his escape, and in the end reached France in safety.

If the traveller returns to Prawle Point, and then follows the coast
towards Dartmouth, he will soon come to the ridge of Start Point, which
'stretches boldly to sea, sloped on each side like the roof of a house,
and crowned along its entire length by fanciful crags, strangely
weathered and shaggy with moss.' Round the Point at a certain state of
every tide there is a formidable tide-race, and always a swell so strong
as to make small boats very careful of the weather before they try to
sail round the Start. Dartmouth lies almost due north, and the
coast-line between is very lovely, though it has not the impressiveness
of the cliffs farther west. Slapton Sands are over two miles long, and
the hills stand back far enough from the shore to leave room for Slapton
Lea, a fresh-water lake, almost smothered with tall, feathery reeds and
rushes in the summer, separated from the sea by a barrier of pebbles.
The line of these wooded hills is broken by three little valleys, and
down each one flows a brook that feeds the Lea. At the southern edge is
Tor Cross, a handful of cottages under the shadow of a cliff that shuts
away the shore-line to the south. The long stretch of sands is
delightful. They are dotted all over with the glaucous leaves and
brilliant flowers of the yellow-horned poppy, and bristling blue viper's
bugloss, and on the inland edge there is a scattered border of the
rest-harrow's pink butterfly blossoms. The short turf beyond is
sprinkled with the little white bladder campion and thrift and many
other flowers.

At the northern end of the sands the road turns inland, and presently
comes to Blackpool, very small, but one of the most perfect of miniature
bays. The cliffs are 'of various colours and very lustrous,' and almost
on the brink the road winds its way amongst woods of firs and pines that
seem to breathe out a peculiarly spice-like sweetness. When