"Three hawthornes also that groweth in Werall
Do burge and bere grene leaves at Christmas
As fresshe as other in May."

It was Christmas day in the year 63. The autumn colors of red and gold had
long since faded from the hills, and the trees which covered the island
valley of Glastonbury, the Avalon or Apple-tree isle of the early Britons,
were bare and leafless. The spreading, glass-like waters encircling it
round about gleamed faintly in the pale afternoon light of the winter's
day. The light fell also on the silver stems of the willows and on the
tall flags and bending reeds and osiers which bordered the marsh island.
Westward the long ranges of hills running seaward were purple in the
distance and their tops were partly hidden by the misty white clouds which
rested lightly upon them. To the south rose sharply and abruptly a high,
pointed hill, the tor of Glastonbury.

It was nearing the sunset hour when a little band of men in pilgrim garb,
approaching from the west and climbing the long, hilly ridge, came within
sight of this "isle of rest." Twelve pilgrims there were in all, in dress
and appearance very unlike the fair-haired Britons who at that time dwelt
in the land. One, he who led the way, was an old man. His hair was white
and his long, white beard fell upon his breast, but he was tall and erect
and bore no other signs of age. In his hand he carried a stout hawthorn
staff.

The men were climbing slowly up the hill, for they were all weary with
long travelling. And here at the summit of the ridge they stopped to look
out over the wooded hills, the wide-spreading waters and the grassy island
with its leafless thickets of oak and alder. Sitting down to rest, they
spoke one to another of their long journeying from the far-distant land of