He had not journeyed very far when he saw a light ahead and presently
perceived the houses of a village. A fire was lit in the centre,
and a number of figures were gathered round it.
"Something is going on," Malcolm said to himself; "as likely as not
they have got some unfortunate prisoner. Whatever it be, I will
steal in and try to get some food. I cannot go much further without
it; and as their attention is occupied, I may find a cottage empty."
Making his way round to the back of the houses, he approached one
of the cottages in the rear. He lifted the latch of the door and
opened it a little. All was still. With his drawn sword he entered.
The room was empty; a fire burned on the hearth, and on the table
were some loaves which had evidently been just baked. Malcolm
fell upon one of them and speedily devoured it, and, taking a long
draught of rough country wine from a skin hanging against the wall,
he felt another man.
He broke another loaf in two and thrust the pieces into his doublet,
and then sallied out from the cottage again. Still keeping behind
the houses he made his way until he got within view of the fire.
Here he saw a sight which thrilled him with horror. Some eight or
ten peasants and forty or fifty women were yelling and shouting.
Fastened against a post in front of the fire were the remains of
a prisoner. He had been stripped, his ears, nose, hands, and feet
cut off, and he was slowly bleeding to death.
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