Martin strained his eyes. A faint radiance was stealing over the grassland, the light of the rising moon. The horse became a gray ghost carrying a man who rode for safety.
“Who should it be?”
“Fulk de Lisle.”
“That devil!”
The bloody game under the black shadows of the beeches seemed to be losing its fury. Men were calling to each other in the darkness; there was a kind of whimpering murmur, a vague scattering of voices. Once a man shrieked aloud, and Martin felt Mellis shiver.
“It is over. Look, you can see men running. One, two, and another—over there, in the open.”
“Is it with us, or against us?”
“Troy is beaten. Hear them shouting—our people, ‘Richmond! Richmond!’ ”
“What a night, comrade, what a night!”