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Kingsley, Charles, 1819-1875

"Hereward, the Last of the English"


There was bustling to and fro of her and her maids; decking of the hall in
the best hangings; strewing of fresh rushes, to the dislodgement of
Martin; setting out of square tables, and stoops and mugs thereon; cooking
of victuals, broaching of casks; and above all, for Hereward's self,
heating of much water, and setting out, in the inner chamber, of the great
bath-tub and bath-sheet, which was the special delight of a hero fresh
from the war.
And by midday the streets of St. Omer rang with clank and tramp and
trumpet-blare, and in marched Hereward and all his men, and swung round
through the gateway into the court, where Torfrida stood to welcome them,
as fair as day, a silver stirrup-cup in her hand. And while the men were
taking off their harness and dressing their horses, she and Hereward went
in together, and either took such joy of the other, that a year's parting
was forgot in a minute's meeting.
"Now," cried she, in a tone half of triumph, half of tenderness, "look
there!"
"A cradle? And a baby?"
"Your baby."
"Is it a boy?" asked Hereward, who saw in his mind's eye a thing which
would grow and broaden at his knee year by year, and learn from him to
ride, to shoot, to fight. "Happy for him if he does not learn worse from
me," thought Hereward, with a sudden movement of humility and contrition,
which was surely marked in heaven; for Torfrida marked it on earth.


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