“A fine stripling, that; the saints grant his arms may turn out as good as his legs,” growled out old Raoul; and so he waited with such patience as he could command.

An hour passed, and the old man was dozing, when the boy returned.

“Wake up, old man,” he said, “I bring news.”

“News—­what news?  Are they all burnt—­slain—­captives?”

“I know not; only the Dismal Swamp is a mass of flame, and all the reeds and flags are burning merrily; ’tis such a bonfire!”

“I believe the lad would clap his hands at a bonfire, if his own grandmother were burning therein as a witch.  How dost thou know whether this is for us or against us?”

“How can I tell?” said the lad, more seriously.

“Perchance our people had not all crossed, and the English fired it to secure their own safety.  But how could they have foreseen our expedition?”

His anxiety was not of long duration, for an object was seen emerging from the shadow of the woods, and making by the base of the little hill towards Aescendune.

“What cheer?” cried the old man, “hither!”

And as he spoke the stranger turned his head, hearing the familiar sounds, and ascended the hill slowly, and with pain.

He presented a dismal object; his hair and beard had been scorched in some intense fire, and his clothes blackened and burnt.

The two Normans, old man and boy, stood up aghast.

“What! is it thou, Owen of Bayeux?”

“I was that man a few hours agone.  I doubt what I am now.”

“What hast thou suffered, then?  Where are the baron and his men?”

“Burnt in the Dismal Swamp?”

“Burnt?”

“Yes, burnt; I speak good French do I not?”

“Owen, Owen,” cried the old Raoul, “do not mistake thy friends for foes! tell us what dreadful event has happened, to disturb thy reason.”

“Would it were but disturbed!  Oh that I should have lived to see this day!”

“Tell us,” cried young Tristam, “tell us, Owen.”

“A fate was on us, as on the Egyptians of old; only they perished by water, we by fire.”

“But how?”

“Ordgar the guide, whom we thought we had secured so opportunely, led us into the marshes and left us therein; and while we were there, the English fired the reeds and bulrushes on all sides.”

“And the baron?”

“He and all have perished; I only have escaped to tell thee.  Where are the rest who were left behind?”

“Here they are,” cried Tristam, as a group of old warriors approached.

“Come, Roger, Jocelyn, Jolliffe—­come hear the news,” cried the boy.  “Oh, come and hear them; can they be true?  All burnt? all dead?”

The horror-struck Normans soon learnt the fatal truth from Owen of Bayeux, and all their stoical fortitude was shaken.