“There were perhaps two hundred of them, the evening sun setting alight the round helmets and breastplates, turning the tips of steel pikes and halberds into flowing candles. Perhaps a third were on horseback, the remainder on foot—a silent, orderly brigade tramping across the overgrown lawns, neglected driveway, and paths that led to the house. She stood waiting in the open front door on this warm summer evening of 1648. The house at her back was a Jacobean mansion of soft, sea-weathered stone,... the classical cornices and pilasters bespeaking an age before civil war, when an English gentleman could afford to indulge his taste for the gentle arts of architecture and landscaping, and build for posterity the manor house that declared his wealth and endeavor. The brigade drew closer, and it became clear that one man rode slightly ahead of the front ranks. Her practiced eye approved both his horse—a magnificent black charger standing maybe twenty hands—and the easy seat of the rider. The latter carried neither pike nor musket, but one gloved hand rested on the hilt of the sword at his hip, the other held the reins as loosely as if he were astride a placid mare.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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