about eleven o'clock
`` The fair breeze blew , the white foam flew ; The furrow follow 'd free ; We were the first that ever burst Into that silent sea . '' The Ancient Mariner . It was too late and too dark last night to see the old house at Stow . We will look round us , then , this bright October day , while Sir Richard and Amyas , about eleven o'clock in the forenoon , are pacing up and down the terraced garden to the south . Amyas has slept till luncheon , i. e. till an hour ago : but Sir Richard , in spite of the bustle of last night , was up and in the valley by six o'clock , recreating the valiant souls of himself and two terrier dogs by the chase of sundry badgers . Old Stow House stands , or rather stood , some four miles beyond the Cornish border , on the northern slope of the largest and loveliest of those combes of which I spoke in the last chapter . Eighty years after Sir Richard 's time there arose there a huge Palladian pile , bedizened with every monstrosity of bad taste , which was built , so the story runs , by Charles the Second , for Sir Richard 's great-grandson , the heir of that famous Sir Bevil who defeated the Parliamentary troops at Stratton , and died soon after , fighting valiantly at Lansdowne over Bath .