which
set the place in a blaze.

Edward marched vice versa, from London to Rochester, relieved the
castle, which still held out for the king after the town had been
taken. Thence Edward marched to Tunbridge, on the northern border
of the Andredsweald, en route for Lewes.

It was the ninth of May, in the year 1264, and the morning sun
shone upon the fresh spring foliage of the Andredsweald, upon
castle, town, and hamlet, especially upon our favourite haunt, the
Castle of Walderne, and the village of Cross-in-Hand on the ridge
above. Even then a windmill crowned that ridge. Let us take our
stand by it:

And all around the widespread scene survey.

What a glorious view as we look across the eddying, billowy tree
tops of the forest to the deep blue sea, sixteen miles distant,
studded with the white sails of many barks which have put out from
land, lest they should be seized by the approaching host, and
confiscated for the royal service, for the sailors have mainly
espoused the popular cause, and dread the medieval press gang. How
many familiar objects we see around--Michelham Priory, Battle
Abbey, Wilmington Priory, Pevensey Castle, Lewes Castle--all in
view.

There, too, opposite us, is the highest of the eastern downs, Firle
Beacon. It is smoking like a volcano with the embers of the bale
fire, which men lit last night, to warn the natives that the king
was coming. There is yet another volcano farther on. It is
Ditchling Beacon; and, yes, another still farther west;
Chanctonbury Ring, with the rounded cone. And on this fair clear
morning we can indistinctly discern a thin line of smoke curling up
from Butzer, on the very limits of Sussex, and in view of the Isle
of Wight and Carisbrooke Castle.

Turn eastward. The ridge continues towards Heathfield, Burwash, and
Battle, and beyond the sun glistens on Fairlight over Hastings,
where another beacon has blazed all night to tell the ships that
the royal enemy is in the forest.

Now look northward and northeast. There is the heathy ridge which
attains its greatest height at Crowborough, ere it descends into
the valley of Tunbridge, and a little eastward lies Mayfield, rich
in tradition. We can see the palace of the Archbishop of
Canterbury, founded by Dunstan. There a royal flag flaunts the
breeze: yes, the king is taking his luncheon, his noontide meal,
and soon the thousands who encamp around the old pile will swarm up
the ridge to the point where we are standing