In the moment of suspense Bret and Pict and Scot were stirred to the very depths of the fount from which they drew their war-passion. Hands leapt to knife and pike and Roman blade as, with paling faces, they turned involuntarily towards each other. Shrill voices, at length, broke yelling into the assembly.
“The Heathen—the Saxons—are upon us! They close in upon us from either side!”
The leader of the sword-dance had halted—the flashing marvel of shield and sword and winged feet had stopped, statue-like, for a minute.
And then again he was leader of men—not of revellers.
Suddenly at the head of every warrior, every chief in the hall—as they banded themselves together in passionate devotion to him.
In a moment of time he became chief and leader of all about him. Not, as it were, of his own free will, but of some power that emanated from him—mysterious—intoxicating. All flocked towards him. The popular cries of Cunedda and Kymry were yoked with those of Cormac and The Black Horse. Men’s hearts kindled anew—Bret and Pict and Scot vowed brotherhood for aye! But when they went forth, it was to confront rumour of battle instead of battle itself!
The wild alarm that two bodies of Saxons were closing upon the Fair, had arisen at the news that two bands of men, in the darkness, were approaching on either side. Panic often seized the people, at the least cause, since that fearful day when the Saxons had burst on the southern plain like an angry sea; and, beating around the walls of Sarum, had at length overcome the mighty fortress.
The approaching men proved to be serfs and herdsmen of Celtic race; but they were the bearers of ill tidings.
From two directions came the grave news that the Roman city, Viriconium, had fallen into the hands of the Saxons, under the two dread brothers—Cutha and Ceawlin; that its inhabitants had been put to the sword, and its buildings to the flame.
The awful tidings seemed to inspire Cormac with new hope and courage.