On they came, knights and men-at-arms, rank upon rank, company by company, until the valley seemed full of the dull gleam of their armour and the air rang loud with clash and jingle and the trample of countless hooves.  Yet still they came, horsemen and foot-men, and ever the sound of them waxed upon the air, a harsh, confused din—­and ever, from the glooming woods above, Death stared down on them.

And now the trumpets blew amain, lights flickered and flared, as one by one, fires were lighted whose red glow flashed back from many a helm and shield and breast-plate, from broad gisarm and twinkling lance-point, what time, above the confused hum, above stamping hooves and clashing armour, voices shouted hoarse commands.

So, little by little, from chaos order was wrought, pack-horse and charger were led away to be watered and picketed and gleaming figures sank wearily about the many camp-fires where food was already preparing.  In a while, from the stir of the camp, bright with its many watch-fires, divers small groups of men were detached, and, pike and gisarm on shoulder, began to mount toward the forest at varying points.

Hereupon, Beltane reached out in the dark and touched the small man Prat the Archer.  Quoth he: 

“Hither come their outposts, go now and bring up my company,—­and bid them come silently!”

Forthwith Prat sank down among the fern and was gone, while Beltane watched, keen-eyed, where four men of Sir Hollo’s outposts climbed the slope hard by.  And one was singing, and one was cursing, and two were quarrelling, and all four, Beltane judged, were men aweary with long marching.  Thus, singing, cursing, quarrelling, came they to keep their ward within these dark and silent woods, crashing through the underbrush careless of their going and all unheeding the sombre, stealthy forms that rose up so silently behind them and before from brush and brake and thicket, creeping figures that moved only when the night-wind moaned in the shivering leaves.

Beltane’s dagger was out and he rose up from the fern, crouched and strung for action—­but from the gloom near by rose a sudden, strange flurry amid the leaves, a whimpering sound evil to hear and swiftly ended, a groan, a cry choked to strangling gasp and thereafter—­ silence, save for the fitful wailing of the wind—­a long, breathless pause; then, high and clear rose the cry of an owl thrice repeated, and presently small Prat was beside him in the fern again.

“Lord,” said he softly, albeit panting a little, “these men were fools!  We do but wait our comrades’ signals now.”  And he fell to cleansing his dagger-blade carefully with a handful of bracken.

“Ha—­list ye!” whispered Cnut, “there sounds Ulf’s warning, methinks!”

And from the gloom on their left a frog croaked hoarsely.

A hundred watch-fires blazed in the valley below and around each fire armour glittered; little by little the great camp grew to silence and rest until nought was heard but the stamp and snorting of the many horses and the cries of the sentinels below.  But ever dagger in hand Beltane strained eyes and ears northward across the valley, while big Cnut bit his nails and wriggled beside him in the bracken, and small Prat softly snapped his fingers; so waited they with ears on the stretch and eyes that glared ever to the north.