From the village the wild shouts of the triumphant Welsh sounded plainly; but mingled with these came, occasionally, a cry of pain, that seemed to show that either the work of slaughter was not yet completed, or that some of the villagers still held one of the houses, and were defending themselves until the last.
Every face was set and stern.

The tenants knew that, at any moment, similar scenes might be enacted in their own villages; while the men-at-arms were eager to get at the foe, and take vengeance for the murders they had perpetrated.
"Be sure you keep your ranks," Sir John said; "remember that any who straggle may be attacked by a score of these wild men, and slain before others can come to their help.

Ride forward in perfect silence, till we are within striking distance." At a gallop, the troop swept down upon the village.

As they reached the first houses, they saw that the road was full of wild figures.

Some were emerging from the houses, laden with such spoil as could be gathered there, chiefly garments; others, with torches, were setting fire to the thatched roofs; while, in the middle of the village, a number were attacking a house somewhat larger and more massively built than the rest.
Sir John raised his sword, with the shout of "A Mortimer! A Mortimer!" The shout was re-echoed by his followers, and a moment later they dashed into the midst of the Welsh.