“Take care of the spoons, Ann!” was my parting shot, as I made my way a little further down the hill.
We all sat down on the ferny slopes and waited and listened. As a general rule nobody talked, which showed how grave was the occasion. In front of us was the sea dark grey to-day as was the sky; the sands sometimes almost golden, were, on this dull February day, only another shade of grey; and the great boulders of rock which cropped up everywhere were of the same colour. And this greyness seemed to suit this scene better than the brightness of Wednesday would have done; for though it was a day of triumph to us we could not forget that it was a day of humiliation and bitterness to these hundreds of men who were approaching us on the other side of the hill. The tide was coming in, but without any sparkle and dash, sullenly; and the south-west wind blew in gusts the strength of which told plainly of power in reserve: one could feel that it was capable of violence.
So were the people who sat waiting—apparently quietly—for their enemies, on the hill-slope, which rose into a natural amphitheatre on all sides (save one) of the scene: whereof the flat sands formed the arena or floor. What a place this would have been for one of the old Roman shows; for a moment I seemed to see the gladiators struggling for life or death, to hear the cruel roar of the lions, to watch the fighting, tearing, and rending in the arena, and to witness what struck me most with awe—the fierce lust for blood which filled the spectators, one and all, as they shouted and craved for more—more blood. I woke up suddenly with a start to find I had been dozing on the hillside, where the people were sitting quietly enough, Britons not Romans, perhaps some of them descendants of these very gladiators who had been
“Butchered to make a Roman holiday.”
CHAPTER IX.
THE CAPITULATION.
Suddenly the listening people caught a far-off sound; it came nearer and nearer rapidly, one’s ears seem to go out to meet it.
“Here they come!” came in a hoarse growl from hundreds of guttural throats—speaking of course in Welsh.
“Hst,” came the return growl from the other portion of the crowd.
The sound became louder and louder; it was plainly the beating of brass drums. A sort of thrill—sometimes called goose-skin passed over me, and I doubt not over most of my neighbours. Enoch Lale’s dream was the thought that stirred us; there was something of second-sight about it that awed one even in the morning air and among that crowd of living beings. For a minute I saw again the spectral army of Enoch’s vision. Then, being a boy, the practical aspect of the matter struck me.
“I hope the wife hasn’t taken the poor old fellow out of ear-shot,” I observed to Mr. Mortimer, near whom I had placed myself. “He heard those drums thirty years ago, sir—and he’d like to know he was right.”