CHAPTER VI.
HOW HEREWARD WAS WRECKED UPON THE FLANDERS SHORE.
Hereward had drunk his share at Sigtryg's wedding. He had helped to harry
the lands of O'Brodar till (as King Ranald had threatened) there was not a
sucking-pig left in Ivark, and the poor folk died of famine, as they did
about every seven years; he had burst (says the chronicler) through the
Irish camp with a chosen band of Berserkers, slain O'Brodar in his tent,
brought off his war-horn as a trophy, and cut his way back to the Danish
army,--a feat in which the two Siwards were grievously wounded; and had in
all things shown himself a daring and crafty captain, as careless of his
own life as of other folks'.
Then a great home-sickness had seized him. He would go back and see the
old house, and the cattle-pastures, and the meres and fens of his boyhood.
He would see his widowed mother. Perhaps her heart was softened to him by
now, as his was toward her; and if not, he could show her that he could do
without her; that others thought him a fine fellow if she did not.
Hereward knew that he had won honor and glory for himself; that his name
was in the mouths of all warriors and sea-rovers round the coasts as the
most likely young champion of the time, able to rival, if he had the
opportunity, the prowess of Harold Hardraade himself.
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