Then a dozen stern men bore brands of fire through the village, and soon every house burst into flames.

It was sad to see their homes burning; it seemed almost a crime to apply the torch; but each man thought it better far, than to leave them for Normans to dwell in.

And soon a brighter blaze startled the neighbourhood—­the castle cast its broad banner of flame to the heavens, and thick clouds of smoke blotted out the stars.  Then the priory, the short-lived priory, followed the lead of the castle, and the valley was light as in broad day, while the river seemed to run with blood as it reflected the blaze.

And by the light two parties left the village in opposite directions—­the last farewells were spoken.  Into the woods—­gloomy and desolate, dimly lighted up by the glare, which filled the heavens, along the river, glowing as it reflected the blaze—­into the woods the two different parties took their way.

The one was led by Wilfred, and Leofric as guide, the other by Haga.  And so the forest swallowed them up, and Aescendune knew them no more.

The fire burnt on, but none were there to heed it; tower and rampart came crashing down into the red ruins, but a few affrighted birds were the only living witnesses of the doom of the proud building, which Hugo had erected as the badge of the slavery of his English vassals.

Crash! crash! and the answer came from the priory; down fell the castle towers, down fell the priory bell turrets.  Norman count and Norman monk were alike homeless.

The morning sun rose brightly upon the devastation, the birds resumed their matin songs, for it was a lovely morning in June; but as yet no human footfall broke the oppressive silence.

It was the early hour of summer sunrise, and the distant sound of a convent bell varied the monotony of the scene, as it called the faithful to prayer.  A sudden sound, as of many riders riding briskly, and a band of lances—­the avant garde of a mighty army—­drew rein at the verge of the yawning and smoking furnace which had been the castle.  There they paused abruptly, and one who seemed almost overwhelmed by surprise and disappointment, gazed as if stupefied upon the wreck of his fortunes.

It was Etienne of Aescendune cum Malville.

As we have seen, the conflagration was yet at its heights when Wilfred of Aescendune and his hundred men left the scene, and took their road to the east, along the reddened waters of the river.

It was not without the deepest sorrow, that the English heir thus abandoned his inheritance, but necessity left no choice; it was plain that the force arrayed against him rendered resistance hopeless, and it was far better to go where his sword was likely to be of use in the struggle for freedom than to hide in the woods, as he said, “like a brock, until the dogs hunt it out.”

And he had hope, too, that when it was discovered that he and his bravest men had fled eastward, pursuit would be attracted in that direction, and the poor fugitives in the woods left unmolested, at least for the present.