Presently one of the dogs raised his head and listened, then he started to his feet with a fierce growl.
"What is the matter, Gripper?" said one of the sentinels stooping and patting him on the head. "'Tis only the shrieking of the wind amid the trees."
The dog listened intently with his eyes on the wood, and gave one or two impatient snarls as though somewhat appeased, but not satisfied.
"Lie down again, sir," said the sentinel, again patting him.
The dog very reluctantly obeyed this command, stretching himself again with a low, fierce growl, and placing his nose between his forepaws, whilst his eyes shone in the darkness, and rolled from side to side most ominously. Not a minute had elapsed before he sprang to his feet again; this time sending forth a loud, fierce bay, which woke the echoes and effectually roused every sleeper in the camp. Immediately the dog sprang towards the adjacent thicket with savage fierceness. But just as quickly he beat a cowardly retreat with his tail between his legs, like a whipped spaniel, for he had fronted the weird and unearthly form of the priest Olaf bearing the image of Thor before him, and the bones of the dead hero dangling from his neck and girdle.
With a savage yell and impetuous rush the Vikings burst into the centre of the camp, sending up their fierce war cry—Skalds hoi!—to the utter terror and bewilderment of the half-awakened Normans. Like infuriated demons they laid about them with terrible effect; and as the Normans realised the position, many of them sprang forward on the instant, sword in hand, only to recoil abashed with terror as they faced the weird form of the old priest, who, without weapon, or implement of war of any kind, headed the fierce onslaught. In their terror and superstition they thought that the devil himself fought for the Vikings, and they gave back in mortal terror. Meantime their assailants made good use of these moments of abject consternation of their enemies, yelling frantically, and cutting down the Normans wholesale; they themselves being thoroughly possessed with the belief that the supernatural powers fought for them. The onslaught was so furious that the Normans staggered and reeled before them, and hovered for a moment on the verge of an utter rout and stampede. But one Norman in this desperate strait broke the spell, for he sprang towards Olaf shouting,—
"Witch or devil, have at thee! I'll try cold steel upon thy pate," and with a blow he cleft the skull of the old priest.
The effect of this was magical, the Normans sent up a shout which made the greenwood ring again, and the echoes in the distant hills to send back long reverberations.
Now the Normans laid about them with vigour, and to some purpose. They outnumbered the Saxon by two or three to one, but fully one-third had been cut down ere they had courage to face the foe. Now the battle raged with more equal fortunes. Blow upon blow, no quarter, no mercy given or taken. At a terrible pace the ranks of each party dwindled, and ere long Sigurd alone of the Saxons was left to do battle with three of the Normans. A giant he was in strength compared with his antagonists. Better equipped also he was for defence, for he wore a coat of mail, and on his head a spiked helmet, with a shield of bronze upon his arm. But his antagonists wilily beset him behind and before. With a spring and a blow he cut down the man who fronted him; but whilst doing it, one of the others cut a deep gash in his thigh from behind, and the third drave the point of his sword between two of his ribs. Furiously Sigurd turned upon them, and with a blow cut down another of his assailants. But again a cowardly stroke from behind severed the sinews of his left arm, and his shield dropped immediately from the powerless limb. So these two alone remained of two stalwart bands of men, who a quarter of an hour ago revelled in the pride of health and vigour. Sigurd was fearfully wounded, with a deadly faint coming over him from pain and loss of blood. He still, however, retained his sword arm unimpaired. Had the Norman fought an evasive battle, time was in his favour, and the burly giant would have been helplessly at his mercy. But the Norman was not sufficiently alive to this fact, though he knew Sigurd was deeply wounded. On he came, furiously attacking his man, and the battle was ended, for with one sweep of his long broadsword Sigurd cut him down. Then for a moment he swayed to and fro, with strength all gone. Next, he staggered forward a step or two, rolling his eyes around as though in quest of further foemen. Stumbling eventually over the corpse of a fallen enemy, he fell forward amid a heap of mangled corpses; and, with a deep groan, consciousness was gone.