He ran rapidly
through the large outer hall, past the long oak table, at which Hereward
and his boon companions were drinking and roistering; and as he passed the
young lord he cast on him a look so full of meaning, that though Hereward
knew not what the meaning was, it startled him, and for a moment softened
him. Did this man who had sullenly avoided him for more than two years,
whom he had looked on as a clod or a post in the field beneath his notice,
since he could be of no use to him,--did this man still care for him?
Hereward had reason to know better than most that there was something
strange and uncanny about the man. Did he mean him well? Or had he some
grudge against him, which made him undertake this journey willingly and
out of spite?--possibly with the will to make bad worse. For an instant
Hereward's heart misgave him. He would stop the letter at all risks. "Hold
him!" he cried to his comrades.
But Martin turned to him, laid his finger on his lips, smiled kindly, and
saying "You promised!" caught up a loaf from the table, slipped from among
them like an eel, and darted out of the door, and out of the close. They
followed him to the great gate, and there stopped, some cursing, some
laughing. To give Martin Lightfoot a yard advantage was never to come up
with him again.
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