“I have brought the foe upon you.  We are tracked,” said Alfgar.  “Edric and the Danes are in alliance.”

“But they have not taken this place yet; neither shall they, by God’s help!  Ha! was that lightning?  Nay, it is winter.”

A sudden burst of fiery light illuminated the scene, and the defenders looked forth, in spite of their danger, from their fortifications.  The little church of St. Michael burst forth into billowing eddies of smoke and flame.

“This is a grievous sight, to see the place we had dedicated to God destroyed by the bloody heathen.  O that He would stretch forth His hand as in the days of old!”

“Would I had but two hundred men; I would fall upon the villains in the rear, and leave not one,” said Edmund.

“Look—­the farm buildings!” cried little Hermann.

“The poor horses and oxen!” cried the Lady Bertha.

“They are safe,” said Edmund.  “You may hear the trampling of hoofs even now.  The fools of Danes are hunting them in all directions.  I do not think they will catch many.”

Lights appeared in two or three places, and soon it became evident that the ruthless foe had gained their object, as the barns and stables lit up in all directions, and the manor house was surrounded by the double conflagration, so that every object was as distinctly visible as in open daylight.

“To your buckets!  Pour water upon the roof; and, archers, look out for the enemy; keep him as far off as you can.”

The boys and women were speedily on the roof pouring water in all directions, in case the wind should deposit the burning brands upon the structure.  Meanwhile flights of arrows came from the distance, and settled around them; but they were spent before arrival in most cases, for the defenders kept the ground clear for a large circle around by their well-sustained discharges.  Not a few dead bodies lying in the glare of the fire testified to their deadly skill.

The flames passed from stable to barn, and barn to shed.  The triumphant cries of the Danes added to the horror of the scene, heard as they were amidst the continuous roaring of the flames.  Crash, crash, went roof after roof, the fall of the little church on the opposite side first leading the awful chorus.  Life seemed the penalty of either Englishman or Dane who dared to trust his person within the circle of light.

The Lady Bertha was comforting her two little girls, Ostryth and Alfreda, where they sat, cowering and terrified, in their own little bedchamber, the window so barricaded that no arrow could enter, but yet not sufficiently to keep out the glare of the flames.

“Mother, how light it is!” said the little Ostryth; “how dreadfully bright!”

“It will soon be darker again.”

“But is it fire?  Are they burning the house?”

“No, dearest.  They have set the farm on fire.  It cannot hurt us.”

“But the horses, and my poor little pony?”