lay Castle Malwood with its single trench and Forest lodge, where tradition says that William Rufus feasted before his death, and down in the valley was the spot where he is said to have fallen. The road now became a long avenue of trees—beeches with their smooth trunks, oaks growing in groups, with here and there long lawns stretching far away 18 into distant woods. All at once the manor burst upon the view. 

18

 Situated in the midst of a noble park which crowned the summit of one of the hills that fringed the borders of the weald, Stafford Hall, in this year of grace 1586, the twenty-eighth of Elizabeth, was graceful and stately in the extreme. The general design of the castle was a parallelogram defended by a round tower at each of the angles with an Anglo-Saxon keep. The entrance through a vaulted passageway was its most striking feature. Of the time of the first Edward, there were signs of decay in tower and still more ancient keep. Crevices bare of mortar gave rare holding ground for moss and wall flower, and ivy and clematis mantled chapel and turrets with a dank shroud that added to the picturesqueness of the building. 

 The park, full of ferny depths, glorious old oaks and deep glades, stretched away on one side toward the soft recesses of the forest. On the other its wooded declivities sloped down to an idle brook now stopped up by water-lilies and white crowfoot. The fair corn lands sloping to the southeast so as to 19 miss no gleam of morning or noonday sun; the fat meadows where the herbage hid the hocks of the browsing kine, and the hanging woods holding so many oaks and beeches ripe for the felling, formed an appanage that was almost royal. 

19

 The views of the castle, the winding declivity of hill, the trees, the fields, the exquisite landscape in the distance made an assemblage of nature’s beauties that was at once inspiring and noble. 

 But Francis Stafford was too angry to heed either beauty of scene or sky, and she hurried toward the Hall with so quick a step that the tutor could scarcely keep pace with her. 

 “I cry you mercy, Francis,” he panted querulously as the girl paused reluctantly in answer to his pleading. “Age hath stolen my vigor and I cannot walk as thou canst. Already thou hast made me plod many a weary step beyond my strength; and now thou wouldst have me run as though I were a lad. Thou art too unheeding.” 

 “A truce to thy chiding, 

 Prev. P 9/163 next