No further mishap befell them; weary and footsore they reached the castle, but the heaviest heart amongst them was that of Hugo.

CHAPTER XI.  ALIVE—­OR DEAD?

The reader will remember that we left Etienne of Aescendune cum Malville and his band in a most critical moment—­lost in a wilderness full of enemies of unknown number and uncertain position; but with a gleam of comfort in the shape of a light which had arisen out of the gloom before them.

“It is one of the rascals carrying a torch.  Let loose the dogs; if they but seize him, we can extort the whole truth; then we shall know what to do.”

Ralph immediately slipped the older and fiercer hound, and tried to set him on the destined prey; but to his astonishment the beast bounded forward but a few yards, then returned with its tail between its legs and whined piteously.

“Are we all bewitched?” exclaimed Etienne.

“Witches and warlocks are said to abound in these woods, and many other works of Satan also.”

“The light goes steadily onwards:  it is a man carrying a torch; let us follow him up.”

They followed rapidly, the torch going smoothly on before them, when all at once the whole party fell into a miry slough up to their waists.

The deceitful light danced about in a joyous manner, as if it were mocking them, and then went out and left them all in utter darkness, struggling vainly in the mud and slime.

“Where are we?” said Pierre, piteously.

“In the Dismal Swamp,” said Ralph.

“Amongst toads and snakes,” cried another.

At this moment half-a-dozen lights appeared in various directions.

“Good heavens, the place is alive with marsh fires.”

“They are what the English call Jack-o’-lanterns.”

“They are ignes fatui,” said Pierre.

“They are the souls of unbaptized babies,” said Ralph.  “Let us try to return to the firm ground we have left.”

More easily said than done.  Our unfortunate Normans struggled vainly in the darkness and in the mire, uttering piteous exclamations—­cold and frozen, and mocked ever and anon by some blazing light.  Many a vow did they make to our Lady of Sorrows, and to St. Erroutt, St. Gervaise, St. Denys, and every other Norman saint, till somebody suggested that the English saints might know more about the morass, and they condescended to appeal to St. Chad (mighty in those parts), beseeching his help in their distress.

Suddenly a piercing cry told that one was being swallowed up in some quicksand; but they could give no aid, and only shudder in helplessness.

At that moment Etienne caught hold of the loose leash by which one of the dogs was secured.

“Let us follow the dogs,” he said; “they always scent out firm ground.”

There was now, happily for them, more light; it had long since ceased to snow, and the stars came out brightly.