Oh, how awful that sucking, clasping feeling beneath the surface of the earth, that gradual sinking out of sight--a process lasting perhaps for hours. But hours were not given to Baron Hugo; for at this moment the awful cry of "Fire!" "Fire!" was heard on all sides, and a loud mocking shout of laughter from hundreds of unseen enemies, now safe on the firm ground beyond the Swamp, was the answer. A cloud of thick smoke rolled over the reeds, and cries of distress and anguish arose yet more loudly. "Death to the incendiary! let him who burnt the monks of St. Wilfred die by fire himself as is meet!" The latter cry arose from the borders of the Swamp, hidden from sight by thick eddying billows of smoke. A flashing sheet of flame, then another--clouds of thick smoke rolling above--the crackling of flame, devouring the dry herbage--stifling heat, yet more unendurable each moment--suffocation impending as the air became thicker and denser. Held by the quicksand, and sinking deeper and deeper--only raised above the ground from the middle of the body; so Hugo awaited his just fate--and felt it just. "Oh for an hour to repent! oh for a priest! My sins have found me out." A sudden gust of wind opened a passage through the smoke, and revealed in the lurid light of the flames--Wilfred of Aescendune! For a moment the baron thought himself dead, and at the judgment seat; then as he saw his supposed victim standing in safety, afar off on the high rock, and pointing out the scene, with awe yet exultation on his youthful face, he grasped, as in a moment, the whole secret of the forces which had been arrayed against him, and tasted an agony bitterer than that of death. "All is lost," he cried. His courage now gave way; he proffered fabulous rewards to any who would save him; but none could help; nay, all were in like distress. His brain reeled--the flames approached--nearer--nearer. It was an awful scene. The marsh was a raging furnace. The exulting cries of the English mingled with the groans of their suffering foes. Pity there was none--the remembrance of the burnt priory had extinguished that sweet virtue. Ah! who shall tell of the terrible hatred, the thirst of blood, which war--begotten of man's fellest passions--had created in the hearts of the oppressed? Who would not pray for peace on earth, good will towards men {xv}? CHAPTER XVII. THE ENGLISH HEIR TAKES POSSESSION. The castle and village of Aescendune lay in deep silence all through this eventful day; it was in early spring, and the air was balmy, the sun bright, the birds sang their sweetest songs, the hedgerows and trees put forth their fresh green buds, and all nature seemed instinct with life. Only a few gray-headed servitors were left to guard the precincts of the castle, for no attack was apprehended from the marauders of the forest, as the Normans styled the English; and every one who could bear arms had left to swell the final triumph of Hugo.