At last, faint and far across the valley, rose the doleful cry of a curlew thrice repeated, the which was answered from the east by the hooting of an owl, which again was caught up like an echo, and repeated thrice upon their right.

Then Beltane sheathed his dagger.

“Look,” said he, “Cnut—­Prat, look north and tell me what ye see!”

“Fire, my lord!” quoth Prat.  “Ha! it burneth well—­see, see how it spreads!”

“And there again—­in the east,” said Cnut, “Oho!  Jenkyn is busy—­look, master!”

“Aye, and Roger too!” said Beltane, grim-lipped, “our ring of fire is well-nigh complete—­it lacketh but for us and Ulf—­to work, then!”

Came the sound of flint meeting steel—­a sound that spread along the ranks that lay unseen beyond Prat and Cnut.  And behold—­a spark! a glow! a little flame that died down, leapt up, caught upon dry grass and bracken, seized upon crackling twigs, flared up high and ever fiercer—­a devouring flame, hungry and yellow-tongued that licked along the earth—­a vengeful flame, pitiless and unrelenting—­a host of fiery demons that leapt and danced with crackling laughter changing little by little to an angry roar that was the voice of awful doom.

Now of a sudden above the hiss of flame, from the valley of Brand a cry went up—­a shout—­a roar of fear and amaze and thereafter rose a wild clamour; a babel inarticulate, split, ever and anon, by frantic trumpet-blast.  But ever the dreadful hubbub waxed and grew, shrieks and cries and the screaming of maddened horses with the awful, rolling thunder of their fierce-galloping hooves!

Within that valley of doom Death was abroad already, Death in many dire shapes.  Proud knights, doughty archers and men-at-arms who had fronted death unmoved on many a stricken field, wept aloud and crouched upon their knees and screamed—­but not so loud as those wild and maddened horses, that, bursting all bonds asunder, reared and leapt with lashing hooves, and, choked with rolling smoke-clouds, blinded by flame, plunged headlong through and over the doomed camp, wave upon wave of wild-flung heads and tossing manes.  On they came, with nought to let or stay them, their wild hooves trampling down hut of osier and silken tent, spurning the trembling earth and filling the air with flying clods; and wheresoever they galloped there was flame to meet them, so swerved they, screaming their terror and fled round and round within the valley.  So raced they blindly to and fro and back and forth, trampling down, maiming and mangling ’neath reddened, cruel hooves all and every that chanced to lie athwart their wild career:  on and ever on they galloped until sobbing, panting, they fell, to be crushed ’neath the thundering hooves behind.

Within the little valley of Brand Death was rife in many and awful shapes that no eye might see, for the many watch-fires were scattered and trampled out; but up from that pit of doom rose shrieks and cries and many hateful sounds—­sounds to pierce the brain and ring there everlastingly.