83 
smothering the undergrowth, brought us to Stoney Cross ridge 
overlooking Canterton Valley, and the panorama of rich woodland 
scenery which unfolds itself from this vantage ground, held the eye 
enchained by its surpassing beauty. What it would be a month 
later, when the leaves of the deciduous trees take on their golden 
autumnal tints, could only be conjectured. In the glorious sunshine 
to-day, even with the freshness of the summer foliage almost gone, 
the scene was marvellously lovely. 
Rurvs’ Stone. 
We now descended the rough furzy slopes of Canterton Valley 
to Rufus’ Stone, famous in history as the spot where William 
Rufus was slain by an arrow shot from the bow of Walter Tyrel, on 
the 2nd August 1100—just 793 years ago. In the olden time this 
must have been a very secluded part of the Forest, and casting the 
imagination back over the centuries, one could easily imagine why 
it had been chosen by Tyrel for the murder of the king. The 
site of the oak, from off which tradition says the fatal arrow glanced 
before it struck the Red monarch, is now marked by a triangular 
stone, about 5 feet high, in a casing of iron, on each of the three 
sides of which the story of the tragic deed is inscribed. The 
Stone was originally erected in 1745 by Lord Delaware, who had 
seen the tree growing on the spot; but having been much mutilated 
and the inscription defaced, it was restored, in the present ‘‘ more 
durable” style, in 1841, by the Warden, Mr William Sturges 
Bourne. The following lines aptly illustrate the superstitions of 
‘the inhabitants of the Forest in former days :— 
‘* Around the spot where erst he felt the wound, 
Red William’s spectre walked his nightly round. 
When o’er the swamp he casts his blighting look, 
From the green marshes of the stagnant brook, 
The bittern’s sullen shout the eddies shook: 
The waning moon, with storm presaging gleam, 
Now gave and now withheld her doubtful beam ; 
The old oak stooped his arms, then flung them high, 
Bellowing and groaning to the troubled sky.” 
But the visitor to the place is not allowed long to recite poetry, or 
to muse in peace under the shady trees, on this historic event. 
A gipsy family, named Peckham, which has long made the Forest 
its home, had its caravan all through the summer drawn up under 
the beeches of this pretty glade, and while a woman with dark eye 
