"What's that?" asked Ned.
"It's the pigs," replied the good missionary. "Not one of them could be driven easily, and there will be fresh pork in camp. All the big houses, too, have more or less bacon in them and dried fish. I will talk no more, now. This is the place that Vebba hath chosen for our sleeping."
It was an open place among trees, well on in the advance but within the army outposts. No tents had been provided, and once more did Ned, the son of Webb, distinguish himself by the miraculous rapidity with which he kindled a camp-fire. He was likely to become a favourite with the men, if this was to go on, although Sikend the Berserker stared at him gloomily, and muttered something dangerous about killing wizards.
By that fire a great deal of cooking was done that evening, even Sikend broiling his fresh pork as if he had no prejudices.
"That didn't come from any of the ships," remarked Ned, as he saw the supplies of butcher meat, even of beef, brought in. "I suppose it is what army men call foraging, and it's another name for plundering. I hope they didn't have to kill anybody, but that's what they want to do more than anything else."
The night was pleasant, but it was long before Ned could shut his eyes. Not that he could see anything with them at more than a few yards from the fires. The dull glare of these shone upon polished shields and armour, here and there. He could see, too, the dim shapes of sentries and patrols, standing still or walking to and fro. They did not often have occasion to speak, and when they did so it was in the gruff and guarded tones of men on the watch for enemies.
The thing which, more than anything else, seemed to keep him awake, was a continual dull roar which filled his ears and worried him.
"It isn't the roar of waves on the shore," he thought. "That may be part of it, but I guess there is something more. I know now! It is the sound of the camp! It is the roar of the army. I remember, in New York, if a fellow gets up before daylight and looks out of a window it is all pretty still until he listens. Then he will hear something like this, a good deal like the roar of a waterfall. Then, as the morning goes along, the racket grows, with the carts and everything, till he gets so used to it that he can't hear it any longer. There are so many thousands of men here, and I shouldn't wonder if a good many of 'em were snoring."
He could rest more quietly after he understood that mighty hum, but it was not yet sunrise when he was awakened by a jerk of his left elbow.
"Get up, my boy," said the voice of Father Brian. "I've roused Lars. I have something for both of you. We will eat our breakfast at once, and then we'll be off. I have permission from Vebba to go out scouting among the heathen Saxons. It's fine!"