“All is lost,” he cried.

His courage now gave way; he proffered fabulous rewards to any who would save him; but none could help; nay, all were in like distress.  His brain reeled—­the flames approached—­nearer—­nearer.

It was an awful scene.  The marsh was a raging furnace.  The exulting cries of the English mingled with the groans of their suffering foes.  Pity there was none—­the remembrance of the burnt priory had extinguished that sweet virtue.

Ah! who shall tell of the terrible hatred, the thirst of blood, which war—­begotten of man’s fellest passions—­had created in the hearts of the oppressed?  Who would not pray for peace on earth, good will towards men {xv}?

CHAPTER XVII.  THE ENGLISH HEIR TAKES POSSESSION.

The castle and village of Aescendune lay in deep silence all through this eventful day; it was in early spring, and the air was balmy, the sun bright, the birds sang their sweetest songs, the hedgerows and trees put forth their fresh green buds, and all nature seemed instinct with life.

Only a few gray-headed servitors were left to guard the precincts of the castle, for no attack was apprehended from the marauders of the forest, as the Normans styled the English; and every one who could bear arms had left to swell the final triumph of Hugo.

Noontide came, and found the little band, of some score aged men, intent upon their midday meal.  This accomplished, they reclined in various easy positions, around the battlements, or on the greensward without, while some had even penetrated into the forest in their eagerness to hear the first news of the extermination of the English, which none doubted was close at hand.

Towards the evening, one of them, who lay reclining on a mossy bank beneath a spreading beech, on a slight eminence, observed a great smoke rising above the tree tops in the distance.

“Doubtless,” thought he, “they are smoking the vermin out, or burning the houses and barns—­of which we have heard—­within the circle of the Deadly Swamp.”

But as the smoke increased more and more, a certain vague feeling of anxiety gained possession of him, and he longed for more accurate means of observation.

“Would I were not so old!

“Oh, young Tristam,” he cried, as he observed a Norman boy, son of one of the men-at-arms—­a lad of about twelve years of age—­“come here!”

“What does all that smoke mean?” cried the lad; “are they burning the encampment of the rebels, or has the forest caught fire? it is dry enough.”

“No doubt they are burning the huts of those rebels and outlaws in the Swamp; but, Tristam, thou art young; canst thou not run over through the woods?  The hill, whereon the pine lately struck by lightning stands, will command a distant view of the Swamp; then return, and tell me all.”

The boy started like a greyhound, and ran through the woods with eagerness.