Years had elapsed sines the maid of Freston Tower had been summoned to visit Alice De Clinton. The messenger, however, had arrived at De Freston's castle, and the lord and the lady prepared to set forth upon their journey. In those days no carriage came sweeping round to the hall-door with their prancing steeds, and gold-laced coachmen and footmen; but ladies rode on horse-back, or were borne in covered litters to their places of entertainment. Horses 'with flowing tails and flying manes,' dressed with gorgeous trappings and high saddles, came from the stables to the mansion. There was no lack of attendants, for a noble then counted his state by the number of his retainers. Ellen and her maid, on palfreys of beautiful jet black, were soon ready for the journey to Wyke's Bishop's Palace. Lord De Freston, on a milk-white horse of uncommon strength, one he had received as a gift from Lord Willoughby, from Hanover, accompanied his daughter, whilst a train of servants preceding as well as following, all mounted on black steeds, made him and his Snow-Ball, as he was called, so much the more conspicuous. His horse had eyes so full of fire, and nostrils so expanded, that he looked well adapted for the battle-field. But he was now upon a visit of peace, and to a peaceful man: and his cavalcade left the castle accompanied by men bearing all the usual luggage which such state visits required. De Freston, indeed, infinitely preferred the journey by water; for he was too sensible a man to delight in the mere pageantry of appearance, yet he was not insensible to the customs of his age. He had, however, a daughter in whom he delighted, and the thought that Alice De Clinton, who loved the forms of etiquette, and would blush to see any one she called _her_ friend lowering herself by condescension, would be affronted were he to forget the dignity of his barony, induced him to take the journey with all his retinue. They descended the Freston Hill, which was then the boundary of the park, and swept along the strand, toward the Bourne Ford, where, following the guide who knew the passage, they dashed through the briny flood, and paced along the levels of Stoke, the tide of the Orwell actually washing their horses' hoofs, as if they were riding along the sea-shore. So beautiful and so clear were the waves of the river which then washed the banks of its course, that the receding tide left a sand almost as clean as that which borders the German Ocean. So high were the waves at that time at the Prior's Ford, between St. Peter's Gate and Stoke, that the party had to sweep round beside the narrower stream of the Gipping, and pass over the Friar's Bridge before they could enter Ipswich.