Sir John Dering by Jeffery Farnol

Sunset had long since paled its splendour; evening was fading into night, a warm and languorous twilight where stars peeped and a waxing radiance gave promise of a moon, while from wood remote, vague, mysterious stole the bubbling murmur of a night-jar.

And my Lady Herminia, having crossed the little footbridge that spanned whispering stream, paused to lean upon the adjacent stile, viewing all things tender-eyed, from the homely lights of Alfriston, twinkling here and there beyond dim-seen trees, to the far-flung majesty of the swelling, silent Downs beyond. Yet, it is to be supposed, she was by no means unconscious of him who stood beside her, though she started when at last he spoke.