The sun was already setting behind the rising grounds which marked the westward extreme of Sherwood forest; long lines of variously-coloured cloud, like far-off promontories jutting into seas of gold and silver, marked the place of his decline, when Jerry Clink, silent and alone, might have been seen sitting on a turfen bench by the doorway of a sort of half hut, half cavern, which lay in a small dell in the heart of the waste, far below those horizontal lines of light that now only tinged the heath-covered tops of the higher hills, or brought out in ghostly relief the scattered and tempest-worn oaks which stood like skeletons far aloof around. By his side stood an earthen pitcher containing his favourite compound, and out of his mouth ascended in peaceful spires the smoke of the immortal herb; while beside him, piled against the wall, lay a heap of bright purple ling or heath, which he had cut and gathered during the day. The old man looked the very personification of solitary enjoyment; a being whose only communion was with earth and sky; and to whom cloud and mountain were as the face of friends. Solitude had no pain for him; day no unsteady pleasures, nor night any fears. The crow that flew high overhead would caw in the upper skies as it cast an eye downwards, and saw him creeping below. The goatsucker would birr in his face as it crossed his path in the gloom; and the cuckoo in his season would give utterance to his notes from the trees closest upon his habitation. He never molested them, but seemed, as it were, a part of the wild nature around him. A tame jackdaw, that hopped and chattered about his dwelling, was the only thing whose voice he heard there, save only that of one human being, that sometimes cried in complaint or pain from a deep part of the cavern behind the front room of his hut, and that was the voice of James Woodruff.