Summary

Portrait of Thomas Hughes 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.
Source: Gutenberg

Portrait of Thomas Hughes Thomas Hughes The Scouring of the White Horse…

I can’t tell you what my holiday at Elm Close has been to me—and I can’t find words to thank you. I’m a poor lonely fellow, with nobody belonging to me, and leading a slave of a life in the midst of the great crowd, with all sorts of temptations to go wrong. You’ll let me think of you, and Elm Close, and it will be like a little bright window with the sun shining through into our musty clerks’ room. I feel it will help to keep me straight for many a long day.
Source: Gutenberg

Portrait of Thomas Hughes Thomas Hughes The Scouring of the White Horse…

Ashdown crows must feast on those eyes, and Ashdown wolves pick those bones, if the Pagans are to be beaten this day. Round them rally the Danes as they are driven up the slope. Again and again the advancing Saxons reel [95] back from the stunted thorn, before the shock of the two Boersirkir. He comes! it is the sickly prince, the stripling on the white horse, trampling fetlock-deep in blood. Round him a chosen band of yellow-bearded men of Wessex. One moment’s pause, and they meet in a last death-grapple. Bite, Saxon blade; pierce, Saxon spear!
Source: Gutenberg

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