And these Danes, or Northmen, whichever they might be—­but we called them all Danes without much distinction—­were the very men with whom I had thought to join when I won down to Cornwall.

One thing I could do, I could fire the beacon on the Quantocks.  That was a good thought; and I hurried to the point where I knew it was ever piled, ready, since the day of Charnmouth fight two years agone.

I found it, and, hammering with the flint I had found in case of such a necessity as last night’s, I kindled the dry fern at its foot to windward, and up it blazed.  Then in a quarter hour’s time it was answered from Brent, and from a score of hills around.

Now, as I stood by the fire, I heard the sound of running footsteps, far off yet, and knew they were the messengers who were bidden to fire the beacon.  So I slipped aside into cover of its smoke, and lay down in a little hollow under some bushes, where I could both see and hear them when they came.

They were four in all, and were panting from their run.

“Who fired the beacon?” said one, looking round.

“Never mind,” said another; “we shall have credit for mighty diligence in doing it.”

“But,” said the first, “he should be here.”

Then they forgot that in the greater interest they had left, or escaped from, and began to talk of the vikings.

The men from two ships had landed, I learned, and had surprised the place; scarce had any time to flee; none to save goods.  They mentioned certain names of the slain whom they had seen fall, and of these one was the franklin whom I was going to seek.  There was no help for me thence now.

One man said he had heard there were more ships lying off; but they did not know how many, and I could see they had been in too great haste to care to learn.

Soon fugitives—­men, women, and children—­began to straggle in wretched little groups up the hill, weeping and groaning, and I knew there would soon be too many there for my liking.  So I crept away, easily enough, and went out to the headland.

But I could see nothing on the sea now; and so, very sad at heart, I sought a bushy hollow and laid me down and slept, while the smoke of Watchet hung round me, and now and then a brighter glare flashed over the low clouds, as the roof of some building fell in and fed the flames afresh.

I woke in the light of the gray dawn, and the smell of burning was gone, and the sea I looked out on was clear again, for a fresh breeze from the eastward was sweeping the smoke, as I could see, away to the other hills, westward.  But the town was gone—­only a smoke was left for all there was for me to look down on, instead of the red-tiled and gray-thatched roofs that I had so often seen before from that place or near it.

Next I saw the ships of the vikings.  They lay out in the channel at anchor, for the tide was failing.  I suppose they had gone into the little haven as soon as there was water enough, and that those lights I saw were signs made from one to the other when that was so.  There were specks near them—­moving—­their boats, no doubt, from the shore, bringing off plunder.  The long ships themselves looked like barley corns from so high above, or so I thought them to look, if they were larger to sight than that, for that was their shape.