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CHAPTER IV.
OUR escort had been directed to prepare our abode for the night at the inn,
opposite the ascent to the Castle. We could not again visit the halls and
familiar chambers of our home, on a mere visit. We had already left for
ever the glades of Windsor, and all of coppice, flowery hedgerow, and
murmuring stream, which gave shape and intensity to the love of our
country, and the almost superstitious attachment with which we regarded
native England. It had been our intention to have called at Lucy's dwelling
in Datchet, and to have re-assured her with promises of aid and protection
before we repaired to our quarters for the night. Now, as the Countess of
Windsor and I turned down the steep hill that led from the Castle, we saw
the children, who had just stopped in their caravan, at the inn-door. They
had passed through Datchet without halting. I dreaded to meet them, and to
be the bearer of my tragic story, so while they were still occupied in the
hurry of arrival, I suddenly left them, and through the snow and clear
moon-light air, hastened along the well known road to Datchet.
Well known indeed it was. Each cottage stood on its accustomed site, each
tree wore its familiar appearance. Habit had graven uneraseably on my
memory, every turn and change of object on the road. At a short distance
beyond the Little Park, was an elm half blown down by a storm, some ten
years ago; and still, with leafless snow-laden branches, it stretched
across the pathway, which wound through a meadow, beside a shallow brook,
whose brawling was silenced by frost--that stile, that white gate, that
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