High March, and a Great Lady

In the weeping grey of an autumn morning, but in great spirits of his
own, Prosper left Gracedieu for High March. The satisfaction of having
braved the worst of an adventure was fairly his; to have made good
disposition of what threatened to fetter him by shutting off any
possible road from his advance; and to have done this (so far as he
could see) without in any sense withdrawing from Isoult the advantages
she could expect--this was tunable matter, which set him singing
before the larks were off the ground. He felt like a man who has
earned his pleasure; and pleasure, as he understood it, he meant to
have. The zest for it sparkled in his quick eyes as he rode briskly
through the devious forest ways. Had Galors or any other dark-entry
man met him now and chanced a combat, he would have bad it with a
will, but he would have got off with a rough tumble and sting or two
from the flat of the sword. The youth was too pleased with himself for
killing or slicing.

However, there was nobody to fight. North Morgraunt was pretty
constantly patrolled by the Countess's riders at this time. A few
grimy colliers; some chair-turners amid their huts and white chips on
the edge of a hidden hamlet; drovers with forest ponies going for
Waisford or Market Basing; the hospitality and interminable devotions
of a hermit by a mossy crucifix on Two Manors Waste; one night alone
in a ruined chapel on the top of a down:--of such were the encounters
and events of his journey. He was no Don Quixote to make desperadoes
or feats of endurance out of such gear; on the contrary, he
persistently enjoyed himself. Sour beer wetted his lips dry with
talking; leaves made a capital bed; the hermit, in the intervals of
his prayers, remembered his own fighting days in the Markstake, and
knew what was done to make Maximilian the Second safely king.
Everything was as it should be.