One of his attendant knights, with two or three stout soldiers, flew to the sleeping guide, and, bending over him, shouted—
“Up, fellow! His highness would speak with thee.”
But the slumbering form never moved.
Driven beyond patience, the knight clutched at his shoulder. But, to his utter horror, the assailant’s hand found nothing to grasp; the cloak sank in at his touch, and, as it fell aside, they could all see that there was no one beneath it.
In that superstitious age, there could be but one explanation of such a prodigy. The hardy soldiers grew pale as death, and the knight, crossing himself tremulously, said in a voice that he vainly tried to steady—
“The Evil One himself hath been among us; let us pray God to protect us.”
Just then broke into the ring the stern duke himself, furious at the delay in obeying his orders. But his face changed as he heard the tale, and the veteran, whom no peril could shake, stood mute and motionless beneath the spell of a terror that was not of this world.
But that spell was suddenly and terribly broken. Through the dead silence of the gloomy winter night came faintly a dull, far-off roar, coming from the camp that they had left; and a fierce red glare, waxing broader and brighter every moment, broke through the gloom in the same direction.
“We are betrayed! our camp is attacked!” roared the duke, stamping and waving his clenched hands like a madman. “Back to it for your lives.”
But with all their haste, they came too late; the mischief was done.