Here, where the high green mound rises
before us, mark yonder roofless shrine which still stands
foursquare to the winds. It is St. Catharine's, where Nigel and
Mary plighted their faith. Below lies the winding river, and over
yonder you still see the dark Chantry woods which mount up to the
bare summit, on which, roofed and whole, stands that Chapel of the
Martyr where the comrades beat off the archers of the crooked Lord
of Shalford. Down yonder on the flanks of the long chalk hills
one traces the road by which they made their journey to the wars.
And now turn hither to the north, down this sunken winding path!
It is all unchanged since Nigel's day. Here is the Church of
Compton. Pass under the aged and crumbling arch. Before the
steps of that ancient altar, unrecorded and unbrassed, lies the
dust of Nigel and of Mary. Near them is that of Maude their
daughter, and of Alleyne Edricson, whose spouse she was; their
children and children's children are lying by their side. Here
too, near the old yew in the churchyard, is the little mound which
marks where Samkin Aylward went back to that good soil from which
he sprang.
So lie the dead leaves; but they and such as they nourish forever
that great old trunk of England, which still sheds forth another
crop and another, each as strong and as fair as the last. The
body may lie in moldering chancel, or in crumbling vault, but the
rumor of noble lives, the record of valor and truth, can never
die, but lives on in the soul of the people.
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