The twins were rarely apart from each other, and this visit to Chiddingly lacked but this one thing for Ralph's perfect happiness; his brother had been compelled to remain in London, where his uncle, Sir John, required his services and personal attendance.
A dim grey light filled the eastern horizon on the Wednesday morning as Ralph made his way to the stables, where he saddled his stout cob.
He bore no weapon—not even the customary rapier without which he rarely went abroad—for this enterprise was to be carried through without bloodshed; upon that point he was determined.
His followers would all carry single-sticks, a formidable weapon enough in the hands of a Sussex rustic! Round his waist he had begirt himself with a long and strong cord—destined for a special purpose.
Presently he mounted his horse and proceeded at a gentle pace towards the woods; his men, he knew, were gone on ahead.
A bright red light suffused the eastern sky, the sun was about to rise, and the twittering of countless birds from every copse filled the air with sweet music.
A summer mist lay on the meadowland, and big drops of dew bedecked the leaves of the hazel bushes, gleaming under the rosy light like rubies.
Suddenly the sun rose above the horizon into a cloudless sky, and the day had begun.
It was a lovely morning, not a cloud flecked the bright azure of the sky.
On his left hand ran the long line of the Sussex downs in graceful outline—rising at Firle Beacon to a lofty height of some seven hundred feet.