Vast is the marsh of Peulven. To the east and the south its shape is like a bay. From that side its edges are bordered by the skirts of the dense forest of Cardik. To the north and west, it waters the gentle slopes of the hills that succeed upon the last spurs of the Black Mountains, whose tops, empurpled by the rays of the westering sun, rise in the distant horizon. A jetty, or tongue of land that runs into the edge of the forest, traverses the marsh through its whole length. Silence is profound in this desert place. The stagnant waters reflect the inflamed tints of the ruddy twilight. From time to time flocks of curlews, herons and other aquatic birds, rise from amidst the reeds that cover the marsh in spots, hover about and fly upward, emitting their plaintive cries. Several Frankish horsemen appear from the side of the mountain. They climb the hill, reach its top, and rein in their horses. They sweep the marsh with their eyes, examine it for a moment, then turn their horses' heads and ride back to join Neroweg and the monk, whose forces, decimated shortly before in the defile of Glen-Clan, have been subsequently harassed without let on their further march by little Breton bands, who, placed in ambush behind hedges, or in ditches covered with dry wood, unexpectedly fell upon either the vanguard or the rear guard of the Franks, and, after bloody encounters, again vanished in that region so interspersed with obstacles of all sorts, impracticable for cavalry, and with which the Frankish foot soldiers are so utterly unfamiliar that they ventured not to separate themselves from the main column, ever fearing to fall into some fresh ambush. On horseback behind the monk, Neroweg stands on the summit of a hill not far behind the one that the scouts have just ascended. He awaits their return in order to continue his march. The vanguard has halted at a little distance from the chief. Further away rest the bulk of his troops. A small detachment of the rear guard was ordered to take its stand about a league further back in order to guard the baggage, the wagons and the wounded of the sorely harassed army. The lines on the face of the Frankish chief denote deep concern. He says to the monk: "What a war! What a war! I have fought against the Northmans, when they attacked our fortified camps at the confluence of the Somme and the Seine. Those accursed pirates are terrible foes. They are as dashing in attack as they are cautious in retreat, and they ever find a safe shelter in the light craft in which they come over the seas of the North as far south as Gaul. But by St. Martin! these accursed Bretons are fuller of the devil, and harder to get at than even the pirates! They were a source of trouble to Charles the great Emperor; they have become the desolation of his son!" And Neroweg repeats dejectedly: "What a war! What a war!" The monk turns upon his saddle, and stretching out his hand in the direction traversed by the Frankish troop, says to Neroweg: