It was a hot, languorous afternoon, birds chirped drowsily, butterflies hovered, and Sir John, or rather Mr. Derwent, seated upon the lofty summit of Firle Beacon, breathed an air fresh from the sea yet fragrant of the wild thyme of the Downs, and hearkened to the larks that soared high above and all around him, filling that same air with their joyous, trilling music: insomuch that he grew joyous also, since this was England and home. Beneath him the majestic Beacon swept down to the wide vale below in great, billowing, green curves of sweet, springy turf where a myriad flowers bloomed; away to the south rose the mighty shape of Windover, and between, a far-stretching vale where homestead and hamlet nestled amid trees that bosomed time-worn tower and ancient spire, backed by shady copse, denser wood and the dark, far-flung forest of Battle; a fair and wide prospect where brooks sparkled, a winding river gleamed and white roads ran between shady hedgerows and flowery banks; a vast expanse where the unwearied gaze might rove from distant Lewes away to Pevensey Level and a haze that was the sea. So lost was Sir John in the ever-changing wonder of the scene that he started suddenly, beholding one who had approached unheard upon the velvet ling, a man who also surveyed the widespread landscape with eyes of awed delight. A man, this, of no great size yet of powerful build, a man in weather-stained coat, open-kneed breeches and rough shoes and stockings, yet who wore these garments with an unconscious ease, while the face beneath shapeless hat was well-featured and arresting; indeed, there was about his whole person an air of breeding and refinement that Sir John was quick to heed: in one hand he bore a long-barrelled musket, in the other a newly slain rabbit and upon his broad back a small colour-box. “A glorious prospect, sir!” quoth Sir John. “Indeed!” nodded the stranger, his gaze still upon the distance. “’Tis a sight to fill a man with wonder, a country to leave that a man may come back to it, to paint because it is so unpaintable ... so simple that it awes a man with its mystery ... a country to live in and die in ... ’tis the Down-country, sir!” “You know it well, I perceive, sir.” “Aye,” answered the stranger, seating himself upon the grass. “I know every ring, barrow and tumulus far as you can see—and farther. I have fished every bend o’ yon river and have painted it all so often that I begin to know that I never shall paint it ... no hand ever will! Though, to be sure, I have come nigh doing so once or twice! But what brush can suggest all the sublime majesty of these everlasting hills, yon sweep of valley? So when I’m tempted to try again, I generally bring Brown Bess here that my day be not wholly in vain.” And he patted the long weapon across his knees. “Do you always shoot conies with a musket, sir?”