The Vice-Chancellor and heads of houses, loth to say good-by, rode with the Queen and her Court up the bridle path through the woods and out on to the heights of Shotover, and here they halted for positively the last speech from the Provost of Oriel, for the last farewells, for the last promises that while life went on they would never forget.
Then the Queen abruptly wheeled her horse away from the laughing throng of courtiers and scholars and rode by herself to the brow of the hill where Faithful had stood on May morning. She saw the valley full of green trees that were already touched here and there with the colors of autumn, backed by low blue hills resting against the sky. Her eyes followed the curve of the valley until they reached a certain place that she knew of, where towers rose out of the autumn haze. It looked like a fragile city spun out of dreams, so small that she could have held it on the palm of her hand and blown it away like silver mist. Perhaps she knew at that moment how many years would pass before she visited that city again, years of unceasing work and anxiety that would never break her spirit but would strip her of her beauty and make of her a weary old woman in a red wig. Perhaps it was because she doubted if the shouts of “Vivat Regina!” that had greeted the young Queen would be as full of love when they greeted the old woman, that she wept, or perhaps it was because she knew quite well that the passing of the years would make no difference, but it was reported by those who had followed her that as she raised her hand in farewell to the city her eyes were full of tears.
“Farewell!” she cried. “God bless you and increase your sons in number, holiness and virtue. Farewell, Oxford, Farewell. Farewell.”
Towers in the Mist Page 45