It was late in the afternoon, and the west a sweep of cold clear gold, when they came to the town of Battle, riding over the hill where the windmills stood, the hill called Mountjoy in those parts, for there the knights of William the Norman had tossed their spears in triumph as the sun went down. Coming by Mill Street into King Street they saw the great gray gate of the Abbey facing the town green where the fairs were held and where they baited bulls. Looking about them for a good inn, they chose “The Half Moon,” on the eastern side of the green. Over the way stood the great beamed house where wayfarers had been lodged before the days of the Abbey’s death. The first piece of news Mr. Pepys had from the hostler as he dismounted was that my Lord Montague was not at the Abbey, but was expected from Cowdray some day that week. Mr. Pepys swore by way of protest, being stiff and hungry, and inclined to be choleric and testy over trifles. He was walking to and fro in the yard to stretch his legs, and throwing caustic brevities toward John Gore, when a neat and comely woman of forty came stepping over the stones, and desired to know how she could make the gentlemen welcome. Mr. Pepys looked at her bland, brown face, with plaits of dark hair drawn over the forehead, and recovered some of his urbanity. “Your best bedroom, ma’am, the best supper you can serve, and the best bottle of wine you have. You may not know Mr. Pepys of the Admiralty in these parts.” The landlady spread her apron and curtesied very prettily, her brown eyes and the red handkerchief over her bosom making Mr. Pepys approve of her manners. “The great Mr. Samuel Pepys, sir?” “Some people would question the adjective, ma’am.” “I have a boy in one of the King’s ships, sir, and Mr. Pepys, sir, is mighty popular in the navy. I am proud to serve you, sir.” And she dropped him another curtesy that made the great man think her a mighty fine woman. “Tom, carry up the gentlemen’s valises to the big front room. I can give you a little parlor to yourselves, sirs. And what may it please you to take for supper?” They became quite coy and coquettish over pasties and spitted woodcock, duck and apple sauce, and Mr. Pepys’s favorite pudding. The Secretary appeared to forget the stiffness in his legs. He walked in with the genial air of a man who feels that his dignity is sure of its deserts, whispering to John Gore, with a wink, that it is useful at times to be somebody in this world, even for the sake of a clean bed. The hostess of “The Half Moon” reconciled Mr. Pepys so thoroughly to his quarters by the polish of her pewter, the warmth of the wood fire, and by the supper she sent him by the hands of her daughter, that he lost his spite against my Lord Montague for being on the other side of Sussex. Lolling in a chair before the fire, his shoes off and his stockinged feet enjoying the blaze, he made as comfortable a picture as a philosopher could wish to praise.