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Doyle, Arthur Conan, Sir, 1859-1930

"Sir Nigel"


Therefore, we will go upon our way, since there is neither profit
nor honor to be gained, nor any hope of advancement."
Aylward, having unstrung his bow, had remounted his horse during
this conversation, and the two rode swiftly past the little squat
Chapel of the Martyr and over the brow of the hill. From the
summit they looked back. The injured archer lay upon the ground,
with several of his comrades gathered in a knot around him.
Others ran aimlessly up the hill, but were already far behind.
The leader sat motionless upon his horse, and as he saw them look
back he raised his hand and shrieked his curses at them. An
instant later the curve of the ground had hid them from view. So,
amid love and hate, Nigel bade adieu to the home of his youth.
And now the comrades were journeying upon that old, old road which
runs across the south of England and yet never turns toward
London, for the good reason that the place was a poor hamlet when
first the road was laid. From Winchester, the Saxon capital, to
Canterbury, the holy city of Kent, ran that ancient highway, and
on from Canterbury to the narrow straits where, on a clear day,
the farther shore can be seen. Along this track as far back as
history can trace the metals of the west have been carried and
passed the pack-horses which bore the goods which Gaul sent in
exchange. Older than the Christian faith and older than the
Romans, is the old road.


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