And so much for the war among the Meres of Scheldt.
CHAPTER XII.
HOW HEREWARD TURNED BERSERK.
Torfrida's heart misgave her that first night as to the effects of her
exceeding frankness. Her pride in the first place was somewhat wounded;
she had dreamed of a knight who would worship her as his queen, hang on
her smile, die at her frown; and she had meant to bring Hereward to her
feet as such a slave, in boundless gratitude; but had he not rather held
his own, and brought her to his feet, by assuming her devotion as his
right? And if he assumed that, how far could she trust him not to abuse
his claim? Was he quite as perfect, seen close, as seen afar off? And now
that the intoxication of that meeting had passed off, she began to
remember more than one little fault which she would have gladly seen
mended. Certain roughnesses of manner which contrasted unfavorably with
the polish (merely external though it was) of the Flemish and Norman
knights; a boastful self-sufficiency, too, which bordered on the ludicrous
at whiles even in her partial eyes; which would be a matter of open
laughter to the knights of the Court. Besides, if they laughed at him,
they would laugh at her for choosing him. And then wounded vanity came in
to help wounded pride; and she sat over the cold embers till almost dawn
of day, her head between her hands, musing sadly, and half wishing that
the irrevocable yesterday had never come.
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