Upon the borders of Hampshire and Sussex, but still within the former county, lies, as the reader probably knows, a large tract of land but little cultivated even now, and which, in the days whereof I speak, was covered either with scattered trees and copses or wild heath, having various paths and roads winding through it, which led now to a solitary village, with a patch of cultivated land round about it, now to a church or chapel in the wild, now travelled on through the hills, which are high and bare, to Winchester or Basingstoke. Deep sand occupies a great portion of the ground, through which it is well nigh impossible to construct a firm road; and the whole country is broken with wild and rapid undulations, of no great height or depth, but every variety of form, the resort of all those rare birds, which afforded so much interest and amusement to gentle White of Selbourne. Through this rude and uncultivated tract, a little before the close of day, in the beginning of April 1413, two gentlemen clothed in deep mourning of the fashion of that day, rode slowly on. Both were very grave and silent; and, if the complexion of their thoughts was sad and solemn, the aspect of the scene at that hour was not calculated to lighten the heart, though it might arouse feelings of admiration. The sun hung upon the edge of the sky; broad masses of cloud floated over the wide expanse of azure which stretched out above the wild heath; and their shadows, as they crossed the slanting rays, swept over the varied surface below, casting long lines of country into deep blue shade, while the rest shone in the cool pale evening sunshine of the yet unconfirmed spring. Each dell and pit, too, at that hour, was filled with the same sort of purple shadow: the braes and banks looked wilder and more strongly marked from the position of the sun; the occasional clumps of fir trees cut sharp and black upon the western sky; and everything was stern and grand and solemn. Rising over one slope and descending another, by paths cut imperfectly through the heath and gorse, the travellers had ridden on for half an hour without speaking, when at length, at the bottom of a deep valley, where the sun could no longer be seen, and the shades of evening seemed already to have fallen, they stopped to let their horses drink in a large piece of water, sheltered by a thick copse, and gazed upon the reflection of the blue sky above and the clouds floating over it. As they moved on again, a large white bird started up from the reeds, and flew heavily away, with its snowy plumage strangely contrasting with the dark background of the wood and hill. "'Tis like a spirit winging its way from earth," said Sir Henry Dacre, following the bird with his eyes. "Poor Catherine! Would that aught else had set thee free from the chain that bound thee to me, but death."