must shoot, shoot low—it flings." I took it and gripped his hand, and so we parted, he going back to Purbeck, and I making along the top of the ridge at the back of Hoar Head. It must have been near three when I reached a great grass-grown mound called Culliford Tree, that marks the resting-place of some old warrior of the past. The top is planted with a clump of trees that cut the sky-line, and there I sat awhile to rest. But not for long, for looking back towards Purbeck, I could see the faint hint of dawn low on the sea-line behind St. Albans Head, and so pressed forward, knowing I had a full ten miles to cover yet.
Thus I travelled on, and soon came to the first sign of man—namely, a flock of lambs being fed with turnips on a summer fallow. The sun was well up now, and flushed all with a rosy glow, showing the sheep and the roots they eat white against the brown earth. Still I saw no shepherd, nor even dog, and about seven o'clock stood safe on Weatherbeach Hill that looks down over Moonfleet.
There at my feet lay the Manor woods and the old house, and lower down the white road and the straggling cottages, and farther still the Why Not and the glassy Fleet, and beyond that the open sea. I cannot say how sad, yet sweet, the sight was: it seemed like the mirage of the desert, of which I had been told—so beautiful, but never to be reached again by me. The air was still, and the blue smoke of the morning wood-fires rose straight up, but none from the Why Not or Manor House. The sun was already very hot, and I dropped down at once from the hill-top, digging my heels into the brown-burned turf, and keeping as much as might be
