THE
ROMANCE OF THE FOREST:
INTERSPERSED
WITH SOME PIECES OF POETRY.
BY THE
AUTHORESS OF "THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO."
_&c. &c._
EMBELLISHED
WITH ENGRAVINGS ON WOOD.
London:
PRINTED AND PUBLISHED BY J. LIMBIRD, 143, STRAND,
(_Near Somerset House._)
1824.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER XVI
CHAPTER XVII
CHAPTER XVIII
CHAPTER XIX
CHAPTER XX
CHAPTER XXI
CHAPTER XXII
CHAPTER XXIII
CHAPTER XXIV
CHAPTER XXV
CHAPTER XXVI
THE
ROMANCE OF THE FOREST
CHAPTER I
I am a man,
So weary with disasters, tugg'd with fortune,
That I would set my life on any chance,
To mend it, or be rid ou't.
When once sordid interest seizes on the heart, it freezes up the source
of every warm and liberal feeling; it is an enemy alike to virtue and to
taste--_this_ it perverts, and _that_ it annihilates. The time may come,
my friend, when death shall dissolve the sinews of avarice, and justice
be permitted to resume her rights.
Such were the words of the Advocate Nemours to Pierre de la Motte, as
the latter stept at midnight into the carriage which was to bear him far
from Paris, from his creditors and the persecution of the laws. De la
Motte thanked him for this last instance of his kindness; the assistance
he had given him in escape; and, when the carriage drove away, uttered a
sad adieu! The gloom of the hour, and the peculiar emergency of his
circumstances, sunk him in silent reverie.
Whoever has read Gayot de Pitaval, the most faithful of those writers
who record the proceedings in the Parliamentary Courts of Paris during
the seventeenth century, must surely remember the striking story of
Pierre de la Motte and the Marquess Philippe de Montalt: let all such,
therefore, be informed, that the person here introduced to their notice
was that individual Pierre de la Motte.
As Madame de la Motte leaned from the coach window, and gave a last look
to the walls of Paris--Paris, the scene of her former happiness, and the
residence of many dear friends--the fortitude, which had till now
supported her, yielding to the force of grief--Farewell all! sighed she,
this last look and we are separated for ever! Tears followed her words,
and, sinking back, she resigned herself to the stillness of sorrow. The
recollection of former times pressed heavily upon her heart; a few
months before and she was surrounded by friends, fortune, and
consequence; now she was deprived of all, a miserable exile from her
native place, without home, without comfort--almost without hope. It was
not the least of her afflictions that she had been obliged to quit Paris
without bidding adieu to her only son, who was now on duty with his
regiment in Germany; and such had been the precipitancy of this removal,
that had she even known where he was stationed, she had no time to
inform him of it, or of the alteration in his father's circumstances.
Pierre de la Motte was a gentleman, descended from an ancient house of
France. He was a man whose passions often overcame his reason, and, for
a time, silenced his conscience; but though the image of virtue, which
nature had impressed upon his heart, was sometimes obscured by the
passing influence of vice, it was never wholly obliterated. With
strength of mind sufficient to have withstood temptation, he would have
been a good man; as it was, he was always a weak, and sometimes a
vicious member of society; yet his mind was active, and his imagination
vivid, which co-operating with the force of passion, often dazzled his
judgment and subdued principle. Thus he was a man, infirm in purpose and
visionary in virtue:--in a word, his conduct was suggested by feeling,
rather than principle; and his virtue, such as it was, could not stand
the pressure of occasion.
Early in life he had married Constance Valentia, a beautiful and elegant
woman, attached to her family and beloved by them. Her birth was equal,
her fortune superior to his; and their nuptials had been celebrated
under the auspices of an approving and flattering world. Her heart was
devoted to La Motte, and, for some time, she found in him an
affectionate husband; but, allured by the gaieties of Paris, he was soon
devoted to its luxuries, and in a few years his fortune and affection
were equally lost in dissipation. A false pride had still operated
against his interest, and withheld him from honourable retreat while it
was yet in his power: the habits which he had acquired, enchained him to
the scene of his former pleasure; and thus he had continued an expensive
style of life till the means of prolonging it were exhausted. He at
length awoke from this lethargy of security; but it was only to plunge
into new error, and to attempt schemes for the reparation of his
fortune, which served to sink him deeper in destruction. The consequence
of a transaction, in which he thus engaged, now drove him, with the
small wreck of his property, into dangerous and ignominious exile.
It was his design to pass into one of the southern provinces, and there
seek, near the borders of the kingdom, an asylum in some obscure
village. His family consisted of a wife and two faithful domestics, a
man and woman, who had followed the fortune of their master.
The night was dark and tempestuous, and at about the distance of three
leagues from Paris, Peter, who now acted as postillion, having driven
for some time over a wild heath where many ways crossed, stopped, and
acquainted De la Motte with his perplexity. The sudden stopping of the
carriage roused the latter from his reverie, and filled the whole party
with the terror of pursuit; he was unable to supply the necessary
direction, and the extreme darkness made it dangerous to proceed without
one. During this period of distress, a light was perceived at some
distance, and after much doubt and hesitation, La Motte, in the hope of
obtaining assistance, alighted and advanced towards it; he proceeded
slowly, from the fear of unknown pits. The light issued from the window
of a small and ancient house, which stood alone on the heath, at the
distance of half a mile.
Having reached the door, he stopped for some moments, listening in
apprehensive anxiety--no sound was heard but that of the wind, which
swept in hollow gusts over the waste. At length he ventured to knock,
and having waited for some time, during which he indistinctly heard
several voices in conversation, some one within inquired what he wanted?
La Motte answered, that he was a traveller who had lost his way, and
desired to be directed to the nearest town. That, said the person, is
seven miles off, and the road bad enough, even if you could see it; if
you only want a bed, you may have it here, and had better stay.
The "pitiless pelting" of the storm, which at this time beat with
increasing fury upon La Motte, inclined him to give up the attempt of
proceeding further till daylight; but, desirous of seeing the person
with whom he conversed, before he ventured to expose his family by
calling up the carriage, he asked to be admitted. The door was now
opened by a tall figure with a light, who invited La Motte to enter. He
followed the man through a passage into a room almost unfurnished, in
one corner of which a bed was spread upon the floor. The forlorn and
desolate aspect of this apartment made La Motte shrink involuntarily,
and he was turning to go out when the man suddenly pushed him back, and
he heard the door locked upon him; his heart failed, yet he made a
desperate, though vain, effort to force the door, and called loudly for
release. No answer was returned; but he distinguished the voices of men
in the room above, and, not doubting but their intention was to rob and
murder him, his agitation, at first, overcame his reason. By the light
of some almost-expiring embers, he perceived a window, but the hope
which this discovery revived was quickly lost, when he found the
aperture guarded by strong iron bars. Such preparation for security
surprised him, and confirmed his worst apprehensions. Alone,
unarmed--beyond the chance of assistance, he saw himself in the power of
people whose trade was apparently rapine!--murder their means!--After
revolving every possibility of escape, he endeavoured to await the event
with fortitude; but La Motte could boast of no such virtue.
The voices had ceased, and all remained still for a quarter of an hour,
when, between the pauses of the wind, he thought he distinguished the
sobs and moaning of a female; he listened attentively, and became
confirmed in his conjecture; it was too evidently the accent of
distress. At this conviction the remains of his courage forsook him, and
a terrible surmise darted, with the rapidity of lightning, across his
brain. It was probable that his carriage had been discovered by the
people of the house, who, with a design of plunder, had secured his
servant, and brought hither Madame de la Motte. He was the more inclined
to believe this, by the stillness which had for some time reigned in the
house, previous to the sounds he now heard. Or it was possible that the
inhabitants were not robbers, but persons to whom he had been betrayed
by his friend or servant, and who were appointed to deliver him into the
hands of justice. Yet he hardly dared to doubt the integrity of his
friend, who had been intrusted with the secret of his flight and the
plan of his route, and had procured him the carriage in which he had
escaped. Such depravity, exclaimed La Motte, cannot surely exist in
human nature; much less in the heart of Nemours!
This ejaculation was interrupted by a noise in the passage leading to
the room: it approached--the door was unlocked--and the man who had
admitted La Motte into the house entered, leading, or rather forcibly
dragging along, a beautiful girl, who appeared to be about eighteen. Her
features were bathed in tears, and she seemed to suffer the utmost
distress. The man fastened the lock and put the key in his pocket. He
then advanced to La Motte, who had before observed other persons in the
passage, and pointing a pistol to his breast, You are wholly in our
power, said he, no assistance can reach you: if you wish to save your
life, swear that you will convey this girl where I may never see her
more; or rather consent to take her with you, for your oath I would not
believe, and I can take care you shall not find me again.--Answer
quickly, you have no time to lose.
He now seized the trembling hand of the girl, who shrunk aghast with
terror, and hurried her towards La Motte, whom surprise still kept
silent. She sunk at his feet, and with supplicating eyes, that streamed
with tears, implored him to have pity on her. Notwithstanding his
present agitation, he found it impossible to contemplate the beauty and
distress of the object before him with indifference. Her youth, her
apparent innocence--the artless energy of her manner forcibly assailed
his heart, and he was going to speak, when the ruffian, who mistook the
silence of astonishment for that of hesitation, prevented him, I have a
horse ready to take you from hence, said he, and I will direct you over
the heath. If you return within an hour, you die: after then, you are at
liberty to come here when you please.
La Motte, without answering, raised the lovely girl from the floor, and
was so much relieved from his own apprehensions, that he had leisure to
attempt dissipating hers. Let us be gone, said the ruffian, and have no
more of this nonsense; you may think yourself well off it's no worse.
I'll go and get the horse ready.
The last words roused La Motte, and perplexed him with new fears; he
dreaded to discover his carriage, lest its appearance might tempt the
banditti to plunder; and to depart on horseback with this man might
reduce a consequence yet more to be dreaded, Madame la Motte, wearied
with apprehension, would, probably, send for her husband to the house,
when all the former danger would be incurred, with the additional evil
of being separated from his family, and the chance of being detected by
the emissaries of justice in endeavouring to recover them. As these
reflections passed over his mind in tumultuous rapidity, a noise was
again heard in the passage, an uproar and scuffle ensued, and in the
same moment he could distinguish the voice of his servant, who had been
sent by Madame La Motte in search of him. Being now determined to
disclose what could not long be concealed, he exclaimed aloud, that a
horse was unnecessary, that he had a carriage at some distance, which
would convey them from the heath, the man who was seized being his
servant.
The ruffian, speaking through the door, bade him be patient a while and
he should hear more from him. La Motte now turned his eyes upon his
unfortunate companion, who, pale and exhausted, leaned for support
against the wall. Her features, which were delicately beautiful, had
gained from distress an expression of captivating sweetness: she had
An eye
As when the blue sky trembles through a cloud
Of purest white.
A habit of gray camlet, with short slashed sleeves, showed, but did not
adorn, her figure: it was thrown open at the bosom, upon which part of
her hair had fallen in disorder, while the light veil hastily thrown on,
had, in her confusion, been suffered to fall back. Every moment of
further observation heightened the surprise of La Motte, and interested
him more warmly in her favour. Such elegance and apparent refinement,
contrasted with the desolation of the house, and the savage manners of
its inhabitants, seemed to him like a romance of imagination, rather
than an occurrence of real life. He endeavoured to comfort her, and his
sense of compassion was too sincere to be misunderstood. Her terror
gradually subsided into gratitude and grief. Ah, Sir, said she, Heaven
has sent you to my relief, and will surely reward you for your
protection: I have no friend in the world, if do not find one in you.
La Motte assured her of his kindness, when he was interrupted by the
entrance of the ruffian. He desired to be conducted to his family. All
in good time, replied the latter; I have taken care of one of them, and
will of you, please St. Peter; so be comforted. These _comfortable_
words renewed the terror of La Motte, who now earnestly begged to know
if his family were safe. O! as for that matter they are safe enough, and
you will be with them presently; but don't stand _parlying_ here all
night. Do you choose to go or stay? you know the conditions. They now
bound the eyes of La Motte and of the young lady, whom terror had
hitherto kept silent, and then placing them on two horses, a man mounted
behind each, and they immediately galloped off. They had proceeded in
this way near half an hour, when La Motte entreated to know whither he
was going? You will know that by and by, said the ruffian, so be at
peace. Finding interrogatories useless, La Motte resumed silence till
the horses stopped. His conductor then hallooed, and being answered by
voices at some distance, in a few moments the sound of carriage wheels
was heard, and, presently after, the words of a man directing Peter
which way to drive. As the carriage approached, La Motte called, and, to
his inexpressible joy, was answered by his wife.
You are now beyond the borders of the heath, and may go which way you
will, said the ruffian; if you return within an hour, you will be
welcomed by a brace of bullets. This was a very unnecessary caution to
La Motte, whom they now released. The young stranger sighed deeply, as
she entered the carriage; and the ruffian, having bestowed upon Peter
some directions and more threats, waited to see him drive off. They did
not wait long.
[Illustration 01]
La Motte immediately gave a short relation of what passed at the house,
including an account of the manner in which the young stranger had been
introduced to him. During this narrative, her deep convulsive sighs
frequently drew the attention of Madame La Motte, whose compassion
became gradually interested in her behalf, and who now endeavoured to
tranquillize her spirits. The unhappy girl answered her kindness in
artless and simple expressions, and then relapsed into tears and
silence. Madame forbore for the present to ask any questions that might
lead to a discovery of her connexions, or seem to require an explanation
of the late adventure, which now furnishing her with a new subject of
reflection, the sense of her own misfortunes pressed less heavily upon
her mind. The distress of La Motte was even for a while suspended; he
ruminated on the late scene, and it appeared like a vision, or one of
those improbable fictions that sometimes are exhibited in a romance: he
could reduce it to no principles of probability, nor render it
comprehensible by any endeavour to analyze it. The present charge, and
the chance of future trouble brought upon him by this adventure,
occasioned some dissatisfaction; but the beauty and seeming innocence of
Adeline united with the pleadings of humanity in her favor, and he
determined to protect her.
The tumult of emotions which had passed in the bosom of Adeline began
now to subside; terror was softened into anxiety, and despair into
grief. The sympathy so evident in the manners of her companions,
particularly in those of Madame La Motte, soothed her heart, and
encouraged her to hope for better days.
Dismally and silently the night passed on, for the minds of the
travellers were too much occupied by their several sufferings to admit
of conversation.
The dawn, so anxiously watched for, at length appeared, and introduced
the strangers more fully to each other. Adeline derived comfort from the
looks of Madame La Motte, who gazed frequently and attentively at her,
and thought she had seldom seen a countenance so interesting, or a form
so striking. The languor of sorrow threw a melancholy grace upon her
features, that appealed immediately to the heart; and there was a
penetrating sweetness in her blue eyes, which indicated an intelligent
and amiable mind.
La Motte now looked anxiously from the coach window, that he might judge
of their situation, and observe whether he was followed. The obscurity
of the dawn confined his views, but no person appeared. The sun at
length tinted the eastern clouds and the tops of the highest hills, and
soon after burst in full splendour on the scene. The terrors of La Motte
began to subside, and the griefs of Adeline to soften. They entered upon
a lane confined by high banks and overarched by trees, on whose branches
appeared the first green buds of spring glittering with dews. The fresh
breeze of the morning animated the spirits of Adeline, whose mind was
delicately sensible to the beauties of nature. As she viewed the flowery
luxuriance of the turf, and the tender green of the trees, or caught,
between the opening banks, a glimpse of the varied landscape, rich with
wood, and fading into blue and distant mountains, her heart expanded in
momentary joy. With Adeline the charms of external nature were
heightened by those of novelty: she had seldom seen the grandeur of an
extensive prospect, or the magnificence of a wide horizon--and not often
the picturesque beauties of more confined scenery. Her mind had not lost
by long oppression that elastic energy, which resists calamity; else,
however, susceptible might have been her original taste, the beauties of
nature would no longer have charmed her thus easily even to temporary
repose.
The road, at length, wound down the side of a hill, and La Motte, again
looking anxiously from the window, saw before him an open champaign
country, through which the road, wholly unsheltered from observation,
extended almost in a direct line. The danger of these circumstances
alarmed him, for his flight might, without difficulty, be traced for
many leagues from the hills he was now descending. Of the first peasant
that passed, he inquired for a road among the hills, but heard of none.
La Motte now sunk into his former terrors. Madame, notwithstanding her
own apprehensions, endeavoured to reassure him; but finding her efforts
ineffectual, she also retired to the contemplation of her misfortunes.
Often, as they went on, did La Motte look back upon the country they had
passed, and often did imagination suggest to him the sounds of distant
pursuit.
The travellers stopped to breakfast in a village, where the road was at
length obscured by woods, and La Motte's spirits again revived. Adeline
appeared more tranquil than she had yet been, and La Motte now asked for
an explanation of the scene he had witnessed on the preceding night. The
inquiry renewed all her distress, and with tears she entreated for the
present to be spared on the subject. La Motte pressed it no farther, but
he observed that for the greater part of the day she seemed to remember
it in melancholy and dejection. They now travelled among the hills, and
were, therefore, in less danger of observation; but La Motte avoided the
great towns, and stopped in obscure ones no longer than to refresh the
horses. About two hours after noon, the road wound into a deep valley,
watered by a rivulet and overhung with wood. La Motte called to Peter,
and ordered him to drive to a thickly embowered spot, that appeared on
the left. Here he alighted with his family; and Peter having spread the
provisions on the turf, they seated themselves and partook of a repast,
which, in other circumstances, would have been thought delicious.
Adeline endeavoured to smile, but the languor of grief was now
heightened by indisposition. The violent agitation of mind and fatigue
of body which she had suffered for the last twenty-four hours, had
overpowed her strength, and when La Motte led her back to the carriage,
her whole frame trembled with illness. But she uttered no complaint,
and, having long observed the dejection of her companions, she made a
feeble effort to enliven them.
They continued to travel throughout the day without any accident or
interruption, and about three hours after sunset arrived at Monville, a
small town where La Motte determined to pass the night. Repose was,
indeed, necessary to the whole party, whose pale and haggard looks, as
they alighted from the carriage, were but too obvious to pass unobserved
by the people of the inn. As soon as beds could be prepared, Adeline
withdrew to her chamber, accompanied by Madame La Motte, whose concern
for the fair stranger made her exert every effort to soothe and console
her. Adeline wept in silence, and taking the hand of Madame, pressed it
to her bosom. These were not merely tears of grief--they were mingled
with those which flow from the grateful heart, when, unexpectedly, it
meets with sympathy. Madame La Motte understood them. After some
momentary silence, she renewed her assurances of kindness, and entreated
Adeline to confide in her friendship; but she carefully avoided any
mention of the subject which had before so much affected her. Adeline at
length found words to express her sense of this goodness, which she did
in a manner so natural and sincere, that Madame, finding herself much
affected, took leave of her for the night.
In the morning, La Motte rose at an early hour, impatient to be gone.
Every thing was prepared for his departure, and the breakfast had been
waiting some time, but Adeline did not appear. Madame La Motte went to
her chamber, and found her sunk in a disturbed slumber. Her breathing
was short and irregular--she frequently started, or sighed, and
sometimes she muttered an incoherent sentence. While Madame gazed with
concern upon her languid countenance, she awoke, and, looking up, gave
her hand to Madame La Motte, who found it burning with fever. She had
passed a restless night, and, as she now attempted to rise, her head,
which beat with intense pain, grew giddy, her strength failed, and she
sunk back.
Madame was much alarmed, being at once convinced that it was impossible
she could travel, and that a delay might prove fatal to her husband. She
went to inform him of the truth, and his distress may be more easily
imagined than described. He saw all the inconvenience and danger of
delay, yet he could not so far divest himself of humanity as to abandon
Adeline to the care, or rather to the neglect, of strangers. He sent
immediately for a physician, who pronounced her to be in a high fever,
and said a removal in her present state must be fatal. La Motte now
determined to wait the event, and endeavour to calm the transports of
terror which at times assailed him. In the mean while he took such
precautions as his situation admitted of, passing the greater part of
the day out of the village, in a spot from whence he had a view of the
road for some distance; yet to be exposed to destruction by the illness
of a girl whom he did not know, and who had actually been forced upon
him, was a misfortune to which La Motte had not philosophy enough to
submit with composure.
Adeline's fever continued to increase during the whole day, and at
night, when the physician took his leave, he told La Motte the event
would very soon be decided. La Motte received this intelligence with
real concern. The beauty and innocence of Adeline had overcome the
disadvantageous circumstances under which she had been introduced to
him, and he now gave less consideration to the inconvenience she might
hereafter occasion him, than to the hope of her recovery.
Madame La Motte watched over her with tender anxiety, and observed with
admiration her patient sweetness and mild resignation. Adeline amply
repaid her, though she thought she could not.--Young as I am, she would
say, and deserted by those upon whom I have a claim for protection, I
can remember no connexion to make me regret life so much, as that I
hoped to form with you. If I live, my conduct will best express my sense
of your goodness;--words are but feeble testimonies.
The sweetness of her manners so much attracted Madame La Motte, that she
watched the crisis of her disorder with a solicitude which precluded
every other interest. Adeline passed a very disturbed night, and, when
the physician appeared in the morning, he gave orders that she should be
indulged with whatever she liked, and answered the inquiries of La Motte
with a frankness that left him nothing to hope.
In the mean time, his patient, after drinking profusely of some mild
liquids, fell asleep, in which she continued for several hours, and so
profound was her repose, that her breath alone gave sign of existence.
She awoke free from fever, and with no other disorder than weakness,
which in a few days she overcame so well as to be able to set out with
La Motte for B----, a village out of the great road, which he thought it
prudent to quit. There they passed the following night, and early the
next morning commenced their journey upon a wild and woody tract of
country. They stopped about noon at a solitary village, where they took
refreshments, and obtained directions for passing the vast forest of
Fontanville, upon the borders of which they now were. La Motte wished at
first to take a guide, but he apprehended more evil from the discovery
he might make of his route, than he hoped for benefit from assistance in
the wilds of this uncultivated tract.
La Motte now designed to pass on to Lyons, where he could either seek
concealment in its neighbourhood, or embark on the Rhone for Geneva,
should the emergency of his circumstances hereafter require him to leave
France. It was about twelve o'clock at noon, and he was desirous to
hasten forward, that he might pass the forest of Fontanville, and reach
the town on its opposite borders, before night-fall. Having deposited a
fresh stock of provisions in the carriage, and received such directions
as were necessary concerning the roads, they again set forward, and in a
short time entered upon the forest. It was now the latter end of April,
and the weather was remarkably temperate and fine. The balmy freshness
of the air, which breathed the first pure essence of vegetation; and the
gentle warmth of the sun, whose beams vivified every hue of nature, and
opened every floweret of spring, revived Adeline and inspired her with
life and health. As she inhaled the breeze, her strength seemed to
return, and as her eyes wandered through the romantic glades that opened
into the forest, her heart was gladdened with complacent delight: but
when from these objects she turned her regard upon Monsieur and Madame
La Motte, to whose tender attentions she owed her life, and in whose
looks she now read esteem and kindness, her bosom glowed with sweet
affections, and she experienced a force of gratitude which might be
called sublime.
For the remainder of the day they continued to travel, without seeing a
hut or meeting a human being. It was now near sunset, and the prospect
being closed on all sides by the forest, La Motte began to have
apprehensions that his servant had mistaken the way. The road, if a road
it could be called, which afforded only a slight track upon the grass,
was sometimes over-run by luxuriant vegetation, and sometimes obscured
by the deep shades, and Peter at length stopped uncertain of the way. La
Motte, who dreaded being benighted in a scene so wild and solitary as
this forest, and whose apprehensions of banditti were very sanguine,
ordered him to proceed at any rate, and, if he found no track, to
endeavour to gain a more open part of the forest. With these orders
Peter again set forwards; but having proceeded some way, and his views
being still confined by woody glades and forest walks, he began to
despair of extricating himself, and stopped for further orders. The sun
was now set; but as La Motte looked anxiously from the window, he
observed upon the vivid glow of the western horizon some dark towers
rising from among the trees at a little distance, and ordered Peter to
drive towards them.--If they belong to a monastery, said he, we may
probably gain admittance for the night.
The carriage drove along under the shade of "melancholy boughs," through
which the evening twilight, which yet coloured the air, diffused a
solemnity that vibrated in thrilling sensations upon the hearts of the
travellers. Expectation kept them silent. The present scene recalled to
Adeline a remembrance of the late terrific circumstances, and her mind
responded but too easily to the apprehension of new misfortunes. La
Motte alighted at the foot of a green knoll, where the trees again
opening to light, permitted a nearer though imperfect view of the
edifice.