Sir John Dering by Jeffery Farnol

It was a golden morning; beyond dew-spangled hedgerows stretched green meadows where brooks sparkled and the river gleamed, while afar, to right and left, rose the majestic shapes of Windover and Firle Beacon.

Never had the country looked so fair, never had it filled him with such yearning; never had the birds carolled so joyously. And very soon, instead of this widespread smiling countryside he loved so much, the reverent hush and stillness of these everlasting hills, the rugged, simple folk he had learned to honour and respect, in place of all this would be the narrow, roaring streets of London, the glitter of Mayfair, the whirl of Paris. Emptiness and Desolation! Sir John sighed again and closed his eyes wearily.