Yeoland, rebel lady and saint, on a great white horse, rode at Fulviac’s side in full armour, save for her helmet. Her horse was cased in steel--chamfron, crinet, gorget, poitrel, croupiere gleaming like burnished silver. She made a fine and martial figure enough, a glittering dawn star for a heroic cause. About her rode her guard, the pick of Fulviac’s men, some fifty spears in all, masses of steel, each bearing a scarlet cross blazoned upon his white jupon. Nord of the Hammer bore the red banner worked by the girl’s own hands. They were hardy men and big of bone, sworn to keep and guard her to the death. Fulviac and Yeoland rode side by side like brothers in arms. All about them were rolling spears and rocking helmets moving among the myriad trees. The sound of arms surged round them like the ominous onrush of a sea. War followed like a thunder-cloud on their heels. Fulviac was in great spirits, somewhat solemn and philosophic, but full of the exultation of a man who feels his ship surging on the foaming backs of giant billows. His eyes were proud enough when they scanned the girl at his side. His heart thundered an echo to the grim tramp of his men on the march. "To-day," he said, making grandiose flourishes with his sword, "the future unrobes to us. We plunge like Ulysses into the unknown. This is life with a vengeance!" She had a smile on her lips and a far-away look in her eyes. "If you love me," she said, "be merciful." "Ah, you are always a woman." "There are many women such as I am; there are many hearts that may be wounded; there are many children." He looked at her meditatively, as though her words were both bitter and sweet in his mouth. "You must play the philosopher, little woman; remember that we work for great ends. I will have mercy when mercy is expedient. But we must strike, and strike terror, we must crush, we must kill." "Yet be merciful." "War is no pastime; men grip with gauntlets of iron, not with velvet gloves. Fanaticism, hate, revenge, patriotism, lust of plunder, and the rest, what powers are these to let loose upon a land! We have the oppression of centuries red in our bosoms. War is no mere subtle game of chess; the wolf comes from the wilderness; the vulture swings in the sky. Fire, death, blood, rapine, and despair, such are the elements of war." "I know, I know." "To purge a field, we burn the crop. To convert, we set swords leaping. To cleanse, we let in the sea. To move the fabrics of custom and the past, a man must play the Hercules. God crushes great nations to insure the inevitable evolution of His will. To move the world, one must play the god." It was noon when the vanguard cleared the trees, and spread rank on rank over the edge of a moor. A zealous sun shone overhead, and the world was full of light and colour, the heather already a blaze of purple, the bracken still virgin, the dense dark pines richly green against the white and azure of the sky.