Abergavenny, and the blue distance is Wales-- the country of King Arthur
and Malory.

To the north-west is the smoke of Worcester, and immediately beneath the
hill, winding shiningly about, is the Avon, running by Bredon village and
the Combertons and Pershore, past Cropthorne (where Mr. MacAngus was
perhaps even now painting) and Wood Norton (where the Duke of Orleans, who
ought, Hester held, to be King of France to-day, lives) to Evesham, and the
weir where they had rowed about, and so on to Stratford.

Robert's maps, fortified by what he had picked up from the old man last
night, told them all these things, and told them also, more or less, what
the "coloured counties" were that they could see; for of course Mary wanted
to know that: Warwickshire, Gloucestershire, Oxfordshire, Worcestershire,
Herefordshire, Monmouthshire. After lunch Mary sang the beautiful Bredon
Hill song to them; and so they descended to the level ground and to Kink
and Hester and Gregory, little expecting to find them with such exciting
things to tell.

>From Beckford to Oxenton the great story lasted, eked out with questions
and answers as it proceeded. Thus, Horace wanted to know why Kink had not
sprung to the horses' heads and checked them in their wild career.

"We couldn't see them," said Gregory; "they were coming up behind, and we
were sitting in front."

Horace was dissatisfied.

"What frightened them?" Jack wanted to know; but Gregory could not say.
Patricia had not explained.