“’Tis a fair thought, lad—­aye, ’tis a right fair thought!  May all the poor souls done thus to sudden, cruel death, march within our slender ranks and smite with us, shoulder to shoulder, henceforth!”

And now as they went, came they on many and divers signs of the Red Pertolepe’s passing; here a smouldering heap of ruin whereby lay pale, stiff shapes half hidden in the grass—­yonder a little child outstretched as though asleep, save for wide eyes that looked so blindly on the sun:  and there, beyond, upon the white dust of the road, great gouts and pools that had trickled from something sprawled among the underbrush.

And the soft wind crooned and whispered in the leaves—­leaves that parting, showed other shapes swung high in air, whose pallid faces looked down on them, awful-eyed, from the tender green, faces drawn and haggard, with teeth agleam or open mouths whence screams had come, but very silent now until the Day of Judgment.

So rode they, with death above them and around, death in many hateful shapes; and oft Sir Benedict bowed his head as one that prayed, the while his strong hands knit themselves to iron fists; and oft from those grim ranks behind a sound went up to heaven, a sound ominous and low, that was like unto a moan.

Thus marched they, through heat and dust, through cool, green shadow, splashing through noisy brook and shallow ford, until, as the sun reached the zenith, they came to the brow of a hill and saw afar the walls and roofs of the prosperous town of Winisfarne.

And ever as they drew nearer.  Sir Benedict stared on it, his black brows close-knit, and fingered his square chin as one puzzled.

“Beltane,” quoth he at last, “’tis full ten years since I saw Winisfarne, and yet—­meseemeth—­it looked not so!  ’Tis as though I missed somewhat, and yet—­”

But now came Roger, a dusty figure, spurring from the rear: 

“Master,” he cried, pointing with eager finger, “O master, the keep—­ where is the great keep that stood yonder?”

“Aye, verily—­the keep!” nodded Sir Benedict, clapping mailed hand to thigh, “and ’twas a great and mighty hold as I do mind me!”

Now looked they gloomily on each other and halted their array what time Sir Benedict passed word for bows to be strung and every eye and every ear to be strained right needfully; then moved they on again.

Betimes they reached the outskirts of the town, for defences it had none, but no man moved therein and no sound reached them but the noise of their own going.  Thus, in a while, with hands tight-clenched and lips firm-set they rode into the desolation of the market-place befouled by signs of battle fierce and fell, while beyond, a mass of charred ruin, lay all that was left of Winisfarne’s once great and famous keep.

Now above this ruin divers gibbets had been set up, and behold! these gibbets each bore a heavy burden.  Then Beltane lighted from his horse, and going apart, laid by his casque and sat him down, his head bowed betwixt his hands as one that is direly sick.  In a while as he sat thus, heedless of all things, cometh Roger.