The Summer of Saint Martin. 129 



Still from their ancient nesting-place, among the 

 noble trees that clothe the steep sides of the hollow in 

 the distant hills, come down the herons. They fish in 

 the self-same ditches where, in bygone days, their 

 startled ancestors spread mighty wings to escape the 

 swift rush of the Prior's favourite falcon. Like the 

 friars, they too have fallen from their high estate. 

 But although no longer followed by the shouting 

 chase, protected by no stern penalty of jealous laws, 

 still by the quiet reaches of the little river, in the 

 moorland ditches, and along the level shore, these 

 ancient solitary anglers watch and wait. 



