On the fourth day from crossing London Bridge they rode for the town of Battle, leaving the Rye road at Flimwell, and entering upon a track that made Mr. Pepys sore in spirit as well as in the saddle. The roughness and the quagmires of the so-called highway reduced him to one of those sad and pensive moods when a man beholds rottenness in every institution, and despairs of an age that can suffer so much mud. When Mr. Pepys felt gloomy he took to talking politics, and to inveighing against the venality of the times, and the dangers that threatened every man, however shrewd and honest he might be. “Keep away from it, John,” he said, solemnly; “for I assure you there will be heads falling before you and I are a year older. We are passing through a pest of plots—ouch!—hold up, you beast, that is the fifth time you have bumped me on the same place! I trust, John, that you have not meddled with any of these intrigues.” “I am just as wise as a child, Sam.” “Be careful that you are not too simple. Now, in your ear, John, I have many fears for that fine gentleman, your father. He is dabbling his hands in dangerous dishes. God knows what will come of all this ferment. The Protestant pot is on the bubble, John; it will boil over and scald a good many people, or I know nothing.” “How much of it is froth?” “Perhaps on the top, sir; but there is a deuced lot of hot liquor underneath. I know more of these things than most men, John; I am in and out, here, there, and everywhere; I keep my ears open, my clacker quiet, and my opinions to myself. There are some people who must be forever meddling, and banking up secret bonfires under their own houses. The papists are just such folk, John. There will be a flare soon, I tell you, and a bigger flare, perhaps, than the Great Fire ever made. Keep your fingers to yourself, John, and let fools play with hot coals.” John Gore listened to Mr. Pepys’s prophecies, and watched the autumn woods flow by, russet and green, and bronze and gold. They were riding now over the Sussex hills, with a gorgeous landscape flowing toward the sea. Blue distances, far, faint horizons, dim, winding valleys ablaze with the splendor of decay. Leaves falling with a flicker of amber in the autumn sunlight. Berries red upon the bryony and the brier. Bracken bronzing the woodlands and the hill-sides, vague mists ready to rise so soon as the sun had set.