The Baron of Hanwell Castle was a corpse; so was the knight of Cropredy Towers; so was the young lord of Southam; others were writhing in mortal agony, but within a quarter of an hour more, only the dead and dying disputed the field with the Wallingford men. The rest had fled, finding the truth of the proverb, "There be many that come out to shear and go back shorn."
"Drag the branches away! pull out the faggots! extinguish the fire! scatter it! fight fire as ye have fought men!"
That was done too. They dispersed the fuel, they scattered the embers; and hardly was this done than Brian rushed in the cave, through the hot ashes. But scarce could he stay in a moment, the smoke blinded—choked him.
Out again, almost beside himself with rage, fear for his boys, and vexation.
In again. Out again.
So three or four abortive attempts.
At last the smoke partially dispersed, and he could enter.
The outer cave was empty.
But in the next subterranean chamber lay a black corpse—a full-grown man. Brian knew him not. He crossed this cave and entered the next one, and by the altar knew it was their rude chapel.
Before the altar lay two figures; their hands clasped in the attitude of prayer; bent to the earth; still—motionless.