Sir John Dering by Jeffery Farnol

Sir John, who, it would seem, never did things by halves, had within the week transformed that exquisite work of art, known at Paris and Versailles as Sir John Dering, into a very ordinary-looking Mr. Derwent. In place of flowing peruke, embroidered coat and perfumed silks and laces, Mr. Derwent wore a small, unpowdered scratch-wig and a sober, snuff-coloured suit extremely unpretentious, and instead of gold-hilted small-sword, carried a serviceable holly-stick. Indeed, Mr. Derwent's whole appearance was so eminently unnoticeable and his bearing so ordinary that he might have been termed "insignificant," except perhaps for a certain tilt of his chin and the brilliance of his long-lashed eyes.

It was a hot, languorous afternoon, birds chirped drowsily, butterflies hovered, and Sir John, or rather Mr. Derwent, seated upon the lofty summit of Firle Beacon, breathed an air fresh from the sea yet fragrant of the wild thyme of the Downs, and hearkened to the larks that soared high above and all around him, filling that same air with their joyous, trilling music: insomuch that he grew joyous also, since this was England and home. Beneath him the majestic Beacon swept down to the wide vale below in great, billowing, green curves of sweet, springy turf where a myriad flowers bloomed; away to the south rose the mighty shape of Windover, and between, a far-stretching vale where homestead and hamlet nestled amid trees that bosomed time-worn tower and ancient spire, backed by shady copse, denser wood and the dark, far-flung forest of Battle; a fair and wide prospect where brooks sparkled, a winding river gleamed and white roads ran between shady hedgerows and flowery banks; a vast expanse where the unwearied gaze might rove from distant Lewes away to Pevensey Level and a haze that was the sea.