So here Elzevir stopped, and drawing from his bosom that silver-butted
pistol of which I have spoken, thrust it in my hand. 'Here, take it,
child,' he said, 'but use it not till thou art closely pressed, and then
if thou _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 skyline, 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. Alban's
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 Weatherbeech 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.
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