moor; they spread; they mingle with
one another over an area more than two leagues in length; by little and
little they present the aspect of one continuous belt of blackish smoke
rising high and spreading into the air, and from time to time breaking
out into lambent flames.

The fire has been kindled at a hundred different spots by the Breton
Gauls with the dry heather of the moor. Driven by the violent gale the
girdle of flame soon embraces the horizon from the east to the south,
from the slopes of Men-Brez to the skirt of the forest. It advances with
rapid strides like the waves of the incoming tide lashed by a furious
wind. Terrified at the sight of the burning waves that are rushing upon
them from the right with the swiftness of a hurricane, the Frankish
ranks waver for a moment. To their left, runs a deep river; behind them,
rises the forest of Cardik; before them the plateau slopes towards the
valley of Lokfern. Himself running for life towards the valley, Louis
the Pious thereby gives to his troops the signal to flee. They follow
their king tumultuously, anxious only to leave the moor behind them
before the flames, that now invade the plateau from end to end, entirely
cut off their retreat. Impatient to escape the danger, the cavalry
breaks ranks, follows the example set by the king, traverses the cohorts
of the infantry, throws them down, and rides rough-shod over them. The
disorder, the tumult, the terror are at their height. The soldiers
struggle with the horsemen and with one another. The fiery wave advances
steadily; it advances faster than it can be run away from. The swiftest
steed cannot cope with it. The all-embracing sheet of fire reaches first
the soldiers whom the cavalry has thrown down and left wounded behind;
it speedily envelopes the bulk of the army. In an instant the distracted
cohorts are seen up to their waists in the midst of the flames.

By the valor of our fathers, it is the hell of the damned in this world!
Frightful! torture! Excruciating pain! A cheering sight for the eyes of
a Breton Gaul, harassed by invaders, to behold his merciless assailers
in. Frankish horsemen cased in iron and fallen from their steeds, roast
within their red-hot armor like tortoises in their shell. The footmen
jump and leap to withdraw their nether extremities from the embrace of
the caressing flames. But the flames never leave them; the flames gain
the lead. Their feet and legs are grilled, refuse their suppor