But on
the back of his hand,--that will be a mark to know him by,--there is
pricked a bear,--a white bear that he slew." And she told the story of the
fairy bear; which Torfrida duly stored up in her heart.
"So he has the Cross on his throat," thought Torfrida to herself. "Well,
if it keep off my charm, it will keep off others, that is one comfort; and
one knows not what fairies or witches or evil creatures he may meet with
in the forests and the fens."
The discovery of Hereward's rank did not, doubtless, lessen Torfrida's
fancy for him. She was ambitious enough, and proud enough of her own
lineage, to be full glad that her heart had strayed away--as it must needs
stray somewhere--to the son of the third greatest man in England. As for
his being an outlaw, that mattered little. He might be inlawed, and rich
and powerful, any day in those uncertain, topsy-turvy times; and, for the
present, his being a wolf's head only made him the more interesting to
her. Women like to pity their lovers. Sometimes--may all good beings
reward them for it--they love merely because they pity. And Torfrida found
it pleasant to pity the insolent young coxcomb, who certainly never
dreamed of pitying himself.
When Hereward went home that night, he found the Abbey of St. Bertin in
horrible confusion.
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