But when appetite was satisfied, then began the buzz of conversation to arise, then the gleemen tuned their harps to sing the praises of Norman warriors; nor did the toasts linger, nor was the drinking of many healths absent.

Amongst the singers—­men of many songs—­those of wealth and rank occasionally took turn; but there was no brighter voice or sweeter song than that of Louis de Marmontier, the third of our trio of pages.  He had distinguished himself that day in the lists, following closely in the steps of Etienne, and now he seemed likely to win the prize for minstrelsy, as he sang the song of Rollo, accompanying himself with thrilling chords on the harp, whose strings had never uttered sweeter notes.

All at once, just when the attention of every one was fixed on the singer, a startling interruption occurred, and the strings ceased to vibrate.

A man, whose head was streaming with blood, whose features were pale and ghastly, and who seemed scarcely able to support his fainting limbs, was approaching the high dais, upon which reclined his lord.

The song ceased—­the cry was heard—­“Help! my lord; they are burning Yew Tree Farm, and I only am escaped to tell thee.”

Suddenly he trembled, staggered, and fell.  They raised him up, but he was gone, his tale half untold.  An arrow had pierced his breast, and he had spent his dying strength in a desperate attempt to reach his lord.

What had happened?

The horn was at this moment heard from the battlements, and its burden was “Fire.”

Hugo turned pale, in spite of his prowess, then cried out—­“To horse! to horse!”

So crying, he rushed from the table, mounted his favourite steed, and, followed by such as could keep pace with him—­there were not many—­rode in the direction of the blaze, which was illuminating the northern sky.

Onward! onward! ride the Normans!  Onward through bush or brake, or copse, or quagmire.  Onward, till the clearing is reached, where the English Lords of Aescendune built Yew Farm.

When they arrived at the spot, Hugo and his Normans paused in astonishment.

For there, in the midst of the clearing, the farm buildings, one and all, stood enveloped in flames.  It was plain, at first sight, that they must have been set on fire in many places at once, for in no other way could the flames have taken such complete and uniform hold.

But where were the inhabitants?

Not a living soul appeared, and the intense heat of the flames forbade closer observation.

And as they stood and gazed helplessly upon the conflagration, the remembrance of the burning of the Monastery came to many minds, and they wondered at the similarity of the circumstances.

“Was this the hand of God?”

At length roof after roof fell in with hideous din.  The Normans waited about the spot and explored the neighbourhood, hoping to find, lighted by the lurid flame of the fire, that Roger and his labourers had found shelter somewhere.  They searched in vain—­they found no one.