seven o’clock
In London I bought a good horse , through the kind offices of the host of my inn , and on the morrow at daybreak I set out upon the Ipswich road . That very morning my last adventure befell me , for as I jogged along musing of the beauty of the English landscape and drinking in the sweet air of June , a cowardly thief fired a pistol at me from behind a hedge , purposing to plunder me if I fell . The bullet passed through my hat , grazing the skull , but before I could do anything the rascal fled , seeing that he had missed his mark , and I went on my journey , thinking to myself that it would indeed have been strange , if after passing such great dangers in safety , I had died at last by the hand of a miserable foot-pad within five miles of London town . I rode hard all that day and the next , and my horse being stout and swift , by half-past seven o'clock of the evening I pulled up upon the little hill whence I had looked my last on Bungay , when I rode thence for Yarmouth with my father . Below me lay the red roofs of the town ; there to the right were the oaks of Ditchingham and the beautiful tower of St. Mary 's Church , yonder the stream of Waveney wandered , and before me stretched the meadow lands , purple and golden with marsh weeds in bloom . All was as it had been , I could see no change at all , the only change was in myself . I dismounted , and going to a pool of water near the roadway I looked at the reflection of my own face .