“Here, then,” he said, “is this old Lawless’s rabbit-hole; pray heaven there come no terrier! For I have rolled hither and thither, and here and about, since that I was fourteen years of mine age and first ran away from mine abbey, with the sacrist’s gold chain and a mass book that I sold for four marks. I have been in England and France and Burgundy, and in Spain, too, on a pilgrimage for my poor soul; and upon the sea, which is no man’s country. But here is my place, Master Shelton. This is my native land, this burrow in the earth. Come rain or wind – and whether it’s April, and the birds all sing, and the blossoms fall about my bed, or whether it’s winter, and I sit alone with my good gossip the fire, and robin redbreast twitters in the woods – here is my church and market, my wife and child. It’s here I come back to, and it’s here, so please the saints, that I would like to die.”

– From “The Black Arrow,” by Robert Louis Stevenson