The youth's bright face was flushed with delight and animation. He was returning a reddened sword to the scabbard; he had brought down his man, cleaving him to the chine, himself unhurt.
Brian smiled grimly.
"Now for Alain," he said; "ah, there he is pursuing these Crowmarsh fellows. We have no time to waste—sound the recall, now onward, for the Chilterns."
Alain rejoined them.
"Thou art wasting time."
"My foe fled; Osric has beaten me to-day."
"Plenty of opportunity for redressing the wrong—now onward."
They passed through Bensington. The gates—for every large village had its walls and gates as a matter of necessity—opened and shut for them in grim silence; they did no harm there. They passed by the wood afterwards called "Rumbold's Copse," and then got into the territory of Shirburne, for so far as Britwell did William Martel exact tribute, and offer such protection as he was able.
From this period all was havoc and destruction—all one grim scene of fire and carnage. They fired every rick, every barn, every house; they slew everything they met.
And Osric was as bad as the rest—we do not wonder at Alain.