The Lady Hilda was at the window of her bower, slightly indisposed; she had not gone down to the priory, but sat inhaling the rich fragrance of the night as the gentle breeze wafted it from a thousand flowers. Star after star peeped out; one sweet-voiced nightingale began her song, trilling through the air; another enviously took up the strain. Hilda thought the earth had never seemed so much like heaven, and she imagined the tuneful birds sang their vesper song in union with the monks, whose solemn and plaintive chant awoke the echoes of the priory church. Her heart was full of solemn yet not sad thoughts; peace, sweet peace, was the subject of her meditations, and she thought with gratitude of Him who had hitherto preserved Mercia from the foe, who had indeed for nearly two years ceased to molest England.
But as she gazed, her attention was attracted to a light on the opposite hills. It was a fire of some kind, and rose up more and more fiercely each moment. It was but a bonfire in appearance, yet it marred both the landscape and the meditative rest of the gazer.
The party from the hall were returning home from the church.
"Father," said Bertric, "look at that light! Is it not singular? I never saw one there before."
But even while they looked another fire appeared in an opposite direction, and Bertric saw his father turn grave.
"It is the beacon fire," said he seriously.
"Yes it is, and see it is answered from the hills to the north," said Alfgar.
Then they were silent, and Bertric felt his spirits sink with a vague kind of apprehension. They said no more till they reached home, and the whole family met, much later than usual, at the evening meal.
"You are late," said Hilda to her lord.
"We were returning home from the meadows on the water, whence the last load of hay has been carried, and we tarried for the compline at the priory. The bell sounded as we were passing."