Jael and Elias, in the shadow of the black wall, saw him one moment, then a cairn-like heap of stones came between.... It was after the noon hour; though it was late autumn the southern land blazed light. Into their ears came the rhythmic dash and recoil of the distant conflict, came, too, the nearer buzz and hum, the sharp, discrete noises of the encampment whose edge they had gained. They saw that they were upon its edge, and that before them lay a road less crowded. This they took. At first men were about them, but these had seen them with Cap-du-Loup and disturbed them not. A trumpet blew and a drum was beat, and the Free Companions hurried to the sound. The two quickened their steps; they took advantage; before the diversion of vision and attention was ended, they were clear of the camp of Gaultier Cap-du-Loup. Right and left lay the host of Montmaure, but ahead was rough, sharp, and broken ground, where horsemen might not manage their horses and disliked by men without steeds. Here was a bend of the brook Saint Laurent, and ground stony and sterile or ashen and burned over. The dragon possessed the wide plain; he drew water from the stream where he wished it, but for the rest left unoccupied this northward-drawn rough splinter of the world.... The two saw an outpost, a sentinel camp, but it was intent upon the crescendo of battle-sound pouring from Roche-de-Frêne, and upon what might be the meaning of Cap-du-Loup’s calling trumpets. Jael and Elias slipped by, in the dry sunshine, beneath the brow of a hill, like a brace of tinted, wind-blown leaves. After this they came into a solitude. It had not been always so, for here the rough ground fell away, Saint Laurent bent his stream like a sickle, and once had been bright fields and graceful vineyards. Here had stood many small houses of peasants who had tilled their fields, tended their vineyards, brought the produce and sold it to Roche-de-Frêne, trudging through life, often in the shadow and often in the sun. Now death only lived and abode and, black-winged, visited the fields. All things were cut down, charred, and withered. The people were gone, and where had been houses stood ruins. The herd-girl sighed as she walked. Once the jongleur saw her weeping. It lasted a long way, this black swath beneath the sun. It led them out of the dragon’s immediate field, away from his mailed and glittering coils. The dragon lay well behind them, his eyes upon Roche-de-Frêne. Roche-de-Frêne itself, now, was distant. But the venom of the dragon had been spread wherever his length had passed. Not alone here, by the brook Saint Laurent, but all around now, as far as the eye could see, stretched blackening and desolation. All was overcovered with the writing of war. The princess of the land had ceased to weep. She viewed ruin with the face of a sibyl.