Such I have tried to draw it.
For good or bad, many books have gone to the building of this one.
I look round my study table and I survey those which lie with me
at the moment, before I happily disperse them forever. I see La
Croix's "Middle Ages," Oman's "Art of War," Rietstap's "Armorial
General," De la Borderie's "Histoire de Bretagne," Dame Berner's
"Boke of St. Albans," "The Chronicle of Jocelyn of Brokeland,"
"The Old Road," Hewitt's "Ancient Armour," Coussan's "Heraldry,"
Boutell's "Arms," Browne's "Chaucer's England," Cust's "Scenes of
the Middle Ages," Husserand's "Wayfaring Life," Ward's "Canterbury
Pilgrims;" Cornish's "Chivalry," Hastings' "British Archer,"
Strutt's "Sports," Johnes Froissart, Hargrove's "Archery,"
Longman's "Edward III," Wright's "Domestic Manners." With these
and many others I have lived for months. If I have been unable to
combine and transfer their effect, the fault is mine.
ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE.
"UNDERSHAW," November 30, 1905.
I. THE HOUSE OF LORING
In the month of July of the year 1348, between the feasts of St.
Benedict and of St. Swithin, a strange thing came upon England,
for out of the east there drifted a monstrous cloud, purple and
piled, heavy with evil, climbing slowly up the hushed heaven. In
the shadow of that strange cloud the leaves drooped in the trees,
the birds ceased their calling, and the cattle and the sheep
gathered cowering under the hedges.
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