The last bit of his route ran within view of the river, which was a pleasant sight, a snaking constellation of ships' lanterns. By contrast the flat countryside was studded with pylons of streaming fire that warmed Daniel's face from half a mile away, like the first uncontrollable flush of shame. Mostly these were simply bonfires, which were the only way Englishmen had of showing emotion. But in one town that he rode through, the Catholic church was being not merely burnt but pulled down, its very bricks prised apart by men with sharpened bars – men made orange by the fire-light, not people he recognized, any more, as countrymen.