Pevensey now reared its giant towers in front. There reigned the Queen’s uncle, Peter of Savoy, specially exempted from the sentence of exile which had fallen upon the rest of the king’s foreign kindred.
There was scant time for hospitality. The vessel lay in the dock which was to bear the crusader away; there was to be a full moon that night; wind and tide were favourable. Everything promised a quick passage, and, after a brief refection, Hubert bade his kinsman and friends farewell, and embarked in the Rose of Pevensey.
England sank behind him. The last glimpse he had of his native land was the gleam of the sunset on Beachy Head.
My native land—Good night.
Chapter [16]: Michelham Once More.
It was a summer evening, and the sun was sinking behind the hills which encompass Lewes. His declining beams gilded the towers of Michelham Priory.
Several of the brethren were walking on the terrace, which overlooked the broad moat, on the western side of the priory; for it was the recreation hour, between vespers and compline.
Across the woods came the knell of parting day, the curfew from the tower of Hamelsham: the “lowing herd wound slowly o’er the lea” from the Dicker, when two friars came in sight, who wore the robe of Saint Francis, and approached the gateway.
“There be some of those ‘kittle cattle,’ the new brethren,” said the old porter from his grated window in the gateway tower over the bridge. “If I had my will, they should spend the night on the heath.”
The friars rang the bell. The porter reluctantly opened.