Thomas Hughes,
The Scouring of the White Horse…
“ In the autumn evenings at twilight, when the southwest wind blows wild, and the mist comes drifting over the broad downs, many a time, as I have stolen down the silent hill-side, I have seen the weird old Pagan king and the five earls, sitting one on each of the giants’ seats, and looking mournfully out over the Vale, waiting—waiting—waiting for a thousand years, all but fourteen. ”
