It was early morn; a glorious bracing October morning,--such October mornings as they have in Devon,--and a scene of wondrous beauty lay before him, but all of this earth. Immediately below lay a well-tended garden, with winding paths, terraces, flowers of varied hue, shrubs, and ornamental trees cut in strange fashions, and beyond lay a ruinous wall, through gaps in which he could see a deep hollow, which once had been a dyke or moat, in days when it was not safe to dwell beyond the shelter of such defences. But with all the bloody tyranny of the latter time it must be said that the strong hand of the government had given a sense of security, unknown before, from all violence save legalized wrong,[47] and _that_ no defence of moat or wall could avert. Beyond the garden the ground sloped down to the valley of the Exe; far away, on the left hand, lay the mighty ocean, in its deep repose, blue as the azure vault above it, the whole coast from the mouth of the Exe to Berry Head, beyond Torbay, was visible; with the line of ruddy cliffs, stretching out into headlands, and receding into bays: while, here and there, a rocky island remained, to show where a promontory had once extended ere the waters broke the connection with the mainland. But straight across the lovely valley, rich in its autumnal livery of purple and gold, arose first the range of Halden, and glistening under the glorious sun and in the clear blue of heaven beyond, looking almost ethereal in the hues of distance, the rocks of Hey Tor and the cairn of Rippon Tor surmounted the nearer heights. Beneath those mountains lay the happy home of the last six years; Hey Tor looked over Ashburton, and perhaps Isabel Grey was even now gazing at those same rocks. Oh, how the freed spirit laughed at distance: the sluggish body might be chained but the mind had flown across the valley of the Exe, over the ridge of Halden, and was there in the old familiar scenes hearing the sweet youthful voice, beholding the beloved features, wandering with the loved one around the enchanted borders of the moorland. The reader who is versed in the topography of Devon will see that the home in which Cuthbert has found refuge, is situated on that lovely ridge of the heath, which rises about three miles from the eastern bank of the estuary of the Exe, of which Woodbury Castle is the most prominent point. But he will wonder how he came there. Listen! a step approaches, the door opens, and a familiar form enters the room. “What, Cuthbert at the window! God bless thee, my boy, thou art better then--, this _is_ a sight for sore eyes.” “Have I been ill, father?” “Thy nurse has but now left the chamber to get her breakfast, and I came in to take her place, in case thou shouldst awake with recovered consciousness and wonder where thou art.” “And where am I?” “Not in Rougemont.” “I see that, but where?”