So Torfrida
faced the danger, as she would have faced that of a kicking horse, or a
flooded ford; and like the nut-brown bride,
"She pulled out a little penknife,
That was both keen and sharp."
and considered that the beggar-man could wear no armor, and that she wore
none either. For if she succeeded in slaying that beggar-man, she might
need to slay herself after, to avoid being--according to the fashion of
those days--burnt alive.
So when the arras was drawn back, and that beggar-man came into the room,
instead of shrieking, fainting, hiding, or turning, she made three steps
straight toward him, looking him in the face like a wild-cat at bay. Then
she threw up her arms; and fell upon his neck.
It was Hereward himself. Filthy, ragged: but Hereward.
His shirt was brown with gore, and torn with wounds; and through its rents
showed more than one hardly healed scar. His hair and beard was all in
elf-locks; and one heavy cut across the head had shorn not only hair, but
brain-pan, very close. Moreover, any nose, save that of Love, might have
required perfume.
But Hereward it was; and regardless of all beholders, she lay upon his
neck, and never stirred nor spoke.
"I call you to witness, ladies," cried the Queen-Countess, "that I am
guiltless. She has given herself to this beggar-man of her own free will.
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