"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.
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