Hereward galloped down the beach.
"Out of the way, villains! Why man, you are a Norseman!"
"Norseman am I, Earl, Thord Gunlaugsson is my name, and news I bring for
the Countess Judith (as the French call her) that shall turn her golden
hair to snow,--yea, and all fair lasses' hair from Lindesness to
Loffoden!"
"Is the Earl dead?"
"And Harold Sigurdsson!"
Hereward sat silent, appalled. For Tosti he cared not. But Harold
Sigurdsson, Harold Hardraade, Harold the Viking, Harold the Varanger,
Harold the Lionslayer, Harold of Constantinople, the bravest among
champions, the wisest among kings, the cunningest among minstrels, the
darling of the Vikings of the North; the one man whom Hereward had taken
for his pattern and his ideal, the one man under whose banner he would
have been proud to fight--the earth seemed empty, if Harold Hardraade were
gone.
"Thord Gunlaugsson," cried he, at last, "or whatever be thy name, if thou
hast lied to me, I will draw thee with wild horses."
"Would God that I did lie! I saw him fall with an arrow through his
throat. Then Jarl Tosti took the Land-ravager and held it up till he died.
Then Eystein Orre took it, coming up hot from the ships. And then he died
likewise. Then they all died. We would take no quarter. We threw off our
mail, and fought baresark, till all were dead together.
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