The glade in which they were seated, through which the little brook foamed and tumbled, was surrounded by magnificent old oaks, some with hollow trunks, others with branches gnarled and twisted in a thousand fantastic shapes, some yet retained a portion of their leaves--brown and sere, one or two were enveloped with ivy, and here and there the mistletoe could be seen, thick and verdant. It was a spot the Druids must have delighted to haunt in the times gone by, and one a painter might like to hap upon now in his woodland strolls. Some fallen logs were close by the stream, and upon these one party placed the viands, or seated their own comely forms, while others piled fresh sticks upon the fire, and held out the fizzing meat on spits--full of enjoyment of the hour, and utterly careless of danger. Pierre was seated on one of the fallen trees; Etienne was playing with the dogs, now only two in number, when the elder of them lifted its nose in the air, and then began to growl ominously. "The dog begins to be uneasy," said old Ralph. "Another wild boar, probably." "Had we not better appoint a sentinel or two? we might be taken by surprise in this glade." "Ralph, where hast thou left thy manhood? Art thou afraid of these shadows?" "They were not shadows who burnt our farms." "I wish they had some substance, then we might get hold of them." "May I appoint men to keep watch?" "It is not necessary," replied Etienne, quite wilfully, for he had determined not to be advised. The meal was now prepared, and the whole party gathered round the fire, arranging the logs so as to form seats. They were soon eating with the zest of men who have had the advantage of forest air, when they were disturbed by another growl from the older dog. Ralph looked uneasily round. "He smells another boar, but one is enough for our dinner," said Etienne, and they turned again to their meal. Suddenly one of their number, a woodman named Gilbert, leapt up with a wild cry, and then fell down in their midst dead. An arrow had pierced his heart. The Normans rose aghast at this sudden intrusion of death, and gazed wildly around. But all was yet silent, no war cry followed this deadly act of hostility--the woods seemed asleep. "To cover," cried Ralph the forester, assuming instinctively the command; "let your own arrows be ready for these lurking cowards." And the Normans, sheltering themselves behind the trunks of the trees, stood, their arrows fitted to the string, to await the onset they momentarily expected. But it did not take place, and after a trying pause of some minutes, Etienne, who had quite recovered his audacity, and who was a little nettled at being, as it were, superseded in the command for the moment, shouted: "Keep your eyes open and search the cover, the miscreants have probably fled, but we may put the dogs on the track."