And he strode unhappily to and fro, with his eyes on the ground and his mind warring.
Far to the east a livid gleam appeared. The darkness of a summer night, which is yet a twilight, was shorn of its soft beauty, and in the air there moved imperceptibly and voluminously a spectral apparition of dawn. A harsh, grey, iron-bound upper-world brooded on a chill and wrinkled earth. The king’s eyes and the eyes of his captain scanned each other from colourless, bleak faces. There was no hue in their garments; their shields were dull as death; and their hands, each clutching a weapon, seemed like the knotted claws of goblins.
A slow, sad exhalation came from the king’s grey lips, like the plaint of some grim merman of the sea, rising away and alone amid the chop and shudder of his dismal waters.
“The fire is catching,” the captain murmured. “Hark to that crackling!”
“We shall have light,” the king murmured. “The Red Branch will flame.”
“Within ...!” said the captain moodily, and he looked with stern mournfulness on the vast pile.
“They must soon come out,” he muttered.
“Your men are posted?”