"Will they come again?" he asked, as with an intense disgust he
surveyed the battle-field in the intermittent light from over the
marshes.
"Listen," said Malise.
The low howling of the wolves had retreated farther, but seemed to
retain more and more of its strange human character.
"_La Meffraye! La Meff--raye!_" they seemed to wail, with a curious
swelling upon the last syllable.
"I hear only the yelling of the infernal brutes," said the Lord James;
"they seem to be calling on their patron saint--the woman whom we saw
in the house of the poor cripple. I am sure I saw her going to and fro
among the devils and encouraging them to the assault."
"'Tis black work at the best," answered Malise; "these are no common
wolves who would dare to attack armed men--demons of the nethermost
pit rather, driven on by their hellish hunt-mistress. There will be
many dead warlocks to-morrow throughout the lands of France."
"Stand to your arms," cried Sholto, from the other side of the tree.
And indeed the howling seemed suddenly to grow nearer and louder.
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