Here on the mound beside Fulke Greville's tower we watch the crisping autumn afternoon, the light bathe aquatinted fields. Our hour for leaving nears; we linger on, and soon dark creeps the towers where Edward was confined; the walls where tourists clank as sentries now; the halls, gilt heavy chambers - polished, lined with portraits whose unsmiling faces cow us with hauteur in splendid paint. All spent - the noble talk, the cruel steel. Wall plaques remain. Rain may attack the battlement but little else. Now nobles pose in wax. Deep shadow takes the stones, the trees, the roads - all sold by the earl to Mme. Tussaud's.