So streamed in these weaponed men till Ralph saw that it was a great host that was entering the Burg; and his heart rose within him, so warrior-like they were of men and array, though no big men of their bodies; and many of them bore signs of battle about them, both in the battering of their armour and the rending of their raiment, and the clouts tied about the wounds on their bodies.

After a while among the warriors came herds of neat and flocks of sheep and strings of horses, of the spoil which the host had lifted; and then wains filled, some with weapons and war gear, and some with bales of goods and household stuff.  Last came captives, some going afoot and some for weariness borne in wains; for all these war-taken thralls were women and women-children; of males there was not so much as a little lad.  Of the women many seemed fair to Ralph despite their grief and travel; and as he looked on them he deemed that they must be of the kindred and nation of the fair white women he had seen in the streets; though they were not clad like those, but diversely.

So Ralph gazed on this pageant till all had passed, and he was weary with the heat and the dust and the confused clamour of shouting and laughter and talking; and whereas most of the folk followed after the host and their spoil, the streets of the town there about were soon left empty and peaceful.  So he turned into a street narrower than most, that went east from the South Gate and was much shaded from the afternoon sun, and went slowly down it, meaning to come about the inside of the wall till he should hit the East Gate, and so into the Great Place when the folk should have gone their ways home.

He saw no folk in the street save here and there an old woman sitting at the door of her house, and maybe a young child with her.  As he came to where the street turned somewhat, even such a carline was sitting on a clean white door-step on the sunny side, somewhat shaded by a tall rose-laurel tree in a great tub, and she sang as she sat spinning, and Ralph stayed to listen in his idle mood, and he heard how she sang in a dry, harsh voice: 

    Clashed sword on shield In the harvest field;
    And no man blames The red red flames,
    War’s candle-wick On roof and rick. 
    Now dead lies the yeoman unwept and unknown
    On the field he hath furrowed, the ridge he hath sown: 
    And all in the middle of wethers and neat
    The maidens are driven with blood on their feet;
    For yet ’twixt the Burg-gate and battle half-won
    The dust-driven highway creeps uphill and on,
    And the smoke of the beacons goes coiling aloft,
    While the gathering horn bloweth loud, louder and oft.

    Throw wide the gates
    For nought night waits;
    Though the chase is dead
    The moon’s o’erhead
    And we need the clear
    Our spoil to share. 
    Shake the lots in the helm then for brethren are we,