It must have been about this time that it rained, having shone
long enough for English weather, and it hardly held up before I
was overtaken by a friendly youth on a bicycle, whom I stayed
with the question uppermost in my mind. He promptly got off his
wheel to grapple with the problem. He was a comely young fellow,
an artisan of some sort from a neighboring town, and he knew the
country well, but he did not know where my lost battle-field was.
He was sure that it was near by: but he was sure there was no
monument to mark the spot. Then we parted friends, with many
polite expressions, and he rode on and I walked on.
For a mile and more I met no other wayfarer, and as I felt that
it was time to ask for Marston Moor again, I was very glad to be
overtaken by a gentleman driving in a dog-cart, with his pretty
young daughter on the wide seat with him. He halted at sight of
the elderly pilgrim, and hospitably asked if he could not give
him a lift, alleging that there was plenty of room. He was
interested in my search, which he was not able definitely to
promote, but he believed that if I would drive with him to his
place I could find the battle-field, and, anyhow, I could get a
trap back from the The Sun.
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