ith a line of brown sand fringed with foam. Northward was
Crowborough Beacon, the Ashdown Forest Ridge, and the hills about Battle
Abbey. Southward, and the way of the setting sun, the Downs ran out in
huge spurs, line behind line of them, into the shining splendour of the
sea, to break off abruptly in the white cliffs of the Seven Sisters. The
hills were bare and bleak in their austere yet rounded strength,
stripped of trees, clothed only in resplendent gorse, here a squat
haystack dumped upon a ridge against the sky, there a great patch of
plough let into the green.

"By Jove!" cried the young man; and the girl thrilled to him because she
felt he loved what was so much to her.

"Some space," panted the old man, climbing back to his seat, and tucking
the rug around him. "Room to stretch a hoss here; and somethin' for his
windpipe better'n Owlbridge's lung-tonic."

Boy said nothing but stood breathing deep and with quiet eyes. At her
side was Billy Bluff, his shaggy hair blown back from his forehead and
astrew across his face, lifting his nose as though to sniff the sunset.

They jogged quietly along the crest of the hills, travelling always
toward the sun, over the ancient Pilgrim's Way that runs from Pevensey,
by the Holy Well in Cow Gap, and the Lamb on the hill at Eastbourne,
past the Star at Alfiriston along the top of the Downs to that cathedral
beyond the Arun, once a chapel of wood, whence St. Wilfrid set out to
take the Gospel from the coast to the heathen dwelling in the dark and
savage Andred's Weald.

The slope was with them; and Goosey Gander made his own pace, slipping
along with smooth and easy stride.

They followed the line of the telegraph poles, skirting steep coombes
shrouded at the foot with beech woods, past round-eyed dew-ponds, at
which cloaked shepherds were watering their flocks. Once an encampment
in the gorse caught their eyes. A yellow van, an ancient horse or two
hobbled in the gorse-bushes, a patch of brown tent, and a whiff of blue
smoke rising from an unseen fire, betrayed the nature of the squatters.

The old man pointed them out with his whip.

"There they are, the beauties," he said. "Thought they wouldn't be fur.
Rogues and rasqueals, Mr. Silver!" he cried, twiddling his whip, and
raising his voice to a sort of chant. "Rogues and rasqueals on h'every
side, layin' in wait for to take a little bit off you--same as the
Psalmist says. And it's no good talkin' to 'em. None whatebb