Chapter VIII.


Of our Start for the Wars

All along the ridge of Portsdown Hill we had the lights of Portsmouth
and of the harbour ships twinkling beneath us on the left, while on the
right the Forest of Bere was ablaze with the signal fires which
proclaimed the landing of the invader. One great beacon throbbed upon
the summit of Butser, while beyond that, as far as eye could reach,
twinkling sparks of light showed how the tidings were being carried
north into Berkshire and eastward into Sussex. Of these fires, some
were composed of faggots piled into heaps, and others of tar barrels set
upon poles. We passed one of these last just opposite to Portchester,
and the watchers around it, hearing the tramp of our horses and the
clank of our arms, set up a loud huzza, thinking doubtless that we were
King's officers bound for the West.

Master Decimus Saxon had flung to the winds the precise demeanour which
he had assumed in the presence of my father, and rattled away with many
a jest and scrap of rhyme or song as we galloped through the darkness.

'Gadzooks!' said he frankly, 'it is good to be able to speak freely
without being expected to tag every sentence with a hallelujah or an
amen.'

'You were ever the leader in those pious exercises,' I remarked drily.