Now looking where Sir Benedict pointed, Beltane beheld a thing, crookedly contorted, a-dangle from a knotted branch that jutted athwart the way, insomuch that the must needs stoop, cowering in his saddle, lest he touch the twisted feet of it.
"Dead three days I judge!" mused Sir Benedict. "Much is possible to the Red Pertolepe in three days. And he hath a great and powerful following, 'tis said!"
Quoth Beltane, pale-cheeked and frowning a little: "So would I have it, Benedict--they shall be the more for us to smite!"
"I've heard he musters full three thousand, Beltane."
"What then, good Benedict? Yon poor, dead thing we passed but now was worth a score of men to us--and there will be others--Sir Pertolepe loveth to see men hang! So perchance, ere we come to Winisfarne, the strength of thousands shall lie within these arms of ours."
"'Tis a fair thought, lad--aye, 'tis a right fair thought! May all the poor souls done thus to sudden, cruel death, march within our slender ranks and smite with us, shoulder to shoulder, henceforth!"
And now as they went, came they on many and divers signs of the Red Pertolepe's passing; here a smouldering heap of ruin whereby lay pale, stiff shapes half hidden in the grass--yonder a little child outstretched as though asleep, save for wide eyes that looked so blindly on the sun: and there, beyond, upon the white dust of the road, great gouts and pools that had trickled from something sprawled among the underbrush.
And the soft wind crooned and whispered in the leaves--leaves that parting, showed other shapes swung high in air, whose pallid faces looked down on them, awful-eyed, from the tender green, faces drawn and haggard, with teeth agleam or open mouths whence screams had come, but very silent now until the Day of Judgment.
So rode they, with death above them and around, death in many hateful shapes; and oft Sir Benedict bowed his head as one that prayed, the while his strong hands knit themselves to iron fists; and oft from those grim ranks behind a sound went up to heaven, a sound ominous and low, that was like unto a moan.
Thus marched they, through heat and dust, through cool, green shadow, splashing through noisy brook and shallow ford, until, as the sun reached the zenith, they came to the brow of a hill and saw afar the walls and roofs of the prosperous town of Winisfarne.
And ever as they drew nearer. Sir Benedict stared on it, his black brows close-knit, and fingered his square chin as one puzzled.
"Beltane," quoth he at last, "'tis full ten years since I saw Winisfarne, and yet--meseemeth--it looked not so! 'Tis as though I missed somewhat, and yet--"