His spurs made the only sound.

The rustics at the door fell back before him.

He had to go up three steps to reach the threshold.

As he stood on the top one he paused and turned round.
So, this was home: this church more so even than the Court hard by.

Here his ancestors--for how long he did not know, probably since the time of Edward III--idled time away in the dust; here Gaston Belward had been sleeping in effigy since Naseby Field.