parts were replanted, and William III. planted by degrees six thousand
acres with trees. The great storm of 1703 uprooted four thousand fine
trees, and then again there was partial neglect, and it was not until
within a half century that a serious effort was made to fully restore
the timber. There have now been ten thousand acres planted: a nursery
for young trees has been established, and about seven hundred acres are
annually planted, the young oaks being set out between Scotch firs,
whose more rapid growth protects the saplings from the gales, and when
they are able to stand alone the firs are thinned out. About four miles
north of Lyndhurst and beyond Minstead is Rufus's Stone. Around Minstead
Manor the land has long been enclosed and cultivated, and looks as
little like a wild forest as can be imagined, while northward the ground
rises to the top of Stony Cross Hill, disclosing one of the finest views
in this region, looking down over a wide valley, with cultivated fields
on its opposite sides and woodland beyond, gently shelving to
Southampton Water, of which occasional glimpses may be had. There is an
abundance of woodland everywhere, checquered by green lawns. At our back
is the enclosed park, within which some intrenchments mark the site of
Castle Malwood, where tradition says that William Rufus passed the night
previous to his death. The king just before dawn aroused his attendants
by a sudden outcry, and rushing into the chamber they found him in such
agitation that they remained there until morning. He had dreamed he was
being bled, and that the stream from his veins was so copious that it
rose to the sky, obscuring the sun. The daylight also brought other
omens: a foreign monk at the court had been dreaming, and saw the king
enter a church, seize the rood, and rend it with his teeth; the holy
image at first submitted to the insult, then struck down the king, who,
while prostrate, vomited fire and smoke which masked the stars. The
king, whose courage had returned with daylight, made light of the monk's
tale, though he did not go to hunt as usual that morning, but after
dinner, having taken liberal drafts of wine, rode out with a small
party, including Walter Tyril, lord of Pontoise, lately arrived from
Normandy. They hunted throughout the afternoon, and near sunset the
king and Tyril found themselves alone in a glade below the castle. A
stag bounded by, and the king unsuccessfully shot at him; then another
ra