Sir John Dering by Jeffery Farnol

The ancient town of Lewes was a-throng, its High Street full of cheery bustle. Here were squires and gentry in lace and velvet, farmers and yeomen in broadcloth and homespun, drovers and shepherds in smock-frocks and leggings; spurs jingled, whips cracked, staves and crooks wagged and flourished in salutation; horsemen and pedestrians jostled one another good-naturedly, exchanging news or shouting jovial greetings; wains and waggons creaked and rumbled, wheels rattled and hoofs stamped, a blithe riot of sounds, for it was market-day.

Now presently, down the hill from London, past the ancient church of St. Mary Westout, drove an elegant travelling-carriage, its panels resplendent with an escutcheon well known hereabouts, for, beholding it, all folk, both gentle and peasant, hasted to make way; so the blood-horses were reined up and the great chariot came to a stand before the portals of the ‘White Hart' inn, whereupon it was surrounded by a crowd eager for sight of the grand personage whose rank and fame lifted him so high above the vulgar herd.