"Prince [i]Liam's[/i] camp!" Alphonse cried in astonishment.

Florian groaned. "Oh, no."

"What do you mean, [i]Prince Liam's camp?![/i]" Coralie screeched in a panic.

August went rigid. "Why? What do you mean, [i]oh no[/i]?" He set his jaw, and he watched as the dwarves quickly avoided his eyes. "What have you done!"

"Well, we saw you guarding it --"

"-- and we saw Miss Sam escaping --"

"-- and we figured it had to be the witch's camp --"

August snarled. "[i]Answer me![/i]"

Florian looked up in a teary-eyed panic, and blurted, "It's sort of on fire."

Indeed, they could begin to smell traces of smoke from here; the leaves of the trees closer to the encampment were flickering with the reflections of red and gold flames.

The Marshal hissed a string of obscenities under his breath, and with Sam locked against his chest he rushed toward the camp, over rocks and branches and bushes, while the dwarves stuttered and stammered and stumbled around him. He could hear the crackle of fire and smell the bitter musk of burning tents, and he knew this was his own fault. He'd left his post -- but he didn't regret it.

Inside the camp, Dorothea was bolting underfoot, stamping at flames with her tiny paws and helping the soldiers to pull the stakes so the tents could be ripped down and stamped out. Raquelle was screeching, standing just in the middle of a mass panic of men in their night-clothes, her skirts hugged tight to her frightened chest. "My clothes!" she cried. "Oh save my clothes! My pillows! No, you're getting soot on it -- I think I've been burned! Look at my hand! Oh help! My [i]tent[/i]! Move faster, put it out, quickly, where's the water?" And she hopped frightfully across the camp while the panicked soldiers weren't paying attention, and she grabbed the best of the camp's water supply and dumped it on a small bit of flames at her feet.