"Nay, 'tis nearer than Wendonmere," said Walkyn, shouldering his axe.
"See, the smoke thickens!" cried Beltane. "Now, God forgive me! the while I tarry here Red Pertolepe is busy, meseemeth!" So saying, he caught up his sword, and incontinent set off at speed toward where the soft blue haze stole upon the air of morning, growing denser and ever denser.
Fast and furious Beltane sped on, crashing through underbrush and crackling thicket, o'erleaping bush and brook and fallen tree, heedful of eye, and choosing his course with a forester's unerring instinct, praying fiercely beneath his breath, and with the three ever close behind.
"Would I had eaten less!" panted Giles.
"Would our legs were longer!" growled Walkyn.
"Would my belt bore fewer notches!" quoth Roger.
And so they ran together, sure-footed and swift, and ever as they ran the smoke grew denser, and ever Beltane's prayers more fervent. Now in a while they heard a sound, faint and confused: a hum, that presently grew to a murmur—to a drone—to a low wailing of voices, pierced of a sudden by a shrill cry no man's lips could utter, that swelled high upon the air and died, lost amid the growing clamour.
"They've fired the ricks first!" panted Roger; "'tis ever Pertolepe's way!"
"They be torturing the women!" hissed Walkyn; "'tis ever so Red
Pertolepe's pleasure!"
"And I have but twelve arrows left me!" groaned Giles.