n, good Benedict? Yon poor, dead thing we passed but now was
worth a score of men to us--and there will be others--Sir Pertolepe
loveth to see men hang! So perchance, ere we come to Winisfarne, the
strength of thousands shall lie within these arms of ours."

"'Tis a fair thought, lad--aye, 'tis a right fair thought! May all the
poor souls done thus to sudden, cruel death, march within our slender
ranks and smite with us, shoulder to shoulder, henceforth!"

And now as they went, came they on many and divers signs of the Red
Pertolepe's passing; here a smouldering heap of ruin whereby lay pale,
stiff shapes half hidden in the grass--yonder a little child
outstretched as though asleep, save for wide eyes that looked so
blindly on the sun: and there, beyond, upon the white dust of the road,
great gouts and pools that had trickled from something sprawled among
the underbrush.

And the soft wind crooned and whispered in the leaves--leaves that
parting, showed other shapes swung high in air, whose pallid faces
looked down on them, awful-eyed, from the tender green, faces drawn and
haggard, with teeth agleam or open mouths whence screams had come, but
very silent now until the Day of Judgment.

So rode they, with death above them and around, death in many hateful
shapes; and oft Sir Benedict bowed his head as one that prayed, the
while his strong hands knit themselves to iron fists; and oft from
those grim ranks behind a sound went up to heaven, a sound ominous and
low, that was like unto a moan.

Thus marched they, through heat and dust, through cool, green shadow,
splashing through noisy brook and shallow ford, until, as the sun
reached the zenith, they came to the brow of a hill and saw afar the
walls and roofs of the prosperous town of Winisfarne.

And ever as they drew nearer. Sir Benedict stared on it, his black
brows close-knit, and fingered his square chin as one puzzled.

"Beltane," quoth he at last, "'tis full ten years since I saw
Winisfarne, and yet--meseemeth--it looked not so! 'Tis as though I
missed somewhat, and yet--"

But now came Roger, a dusty figure, spurring from the rear:

"Master," he cried, pointing with eager finger, "O master, the keep--
where is the great keep that stood yonder?"

"Aye, verily--the keep!" nodded Sir Benedict, clapping mailed hand to
thigh, "and 'twas a great and mighty hold as I do mind me!"

Now looked they gloomily on each other and halted their array what time
Sir Ben