"Because you are here, my hero, to
free your country from her tyrants, and win yourself immortal fame."
"Fool that I am, I verily believe I am crying."
"Those tears," said she, as she kissed them away, "are more precious to
Torfrida than the spoils of a hundred fights, for they tell me that
Hereward still loves his country, still honors virtue, even in a foe."
And thus Torfrida--whether from woman's sentiment of pity, or from a
woman's instinctive abhorrence of villany and wrong,--had become there and
then an Englishwoman of the English, as she proved by strange deeds and
sufferings for many a year.
"Where is that Norseman, Martin?" asked Hereward that night ere he went to
bed, "I want to hear more of poor Hardraade."
"You can't speak to him now, master. He is sound asleep this two hours;
and warm enough, I will warrant."
"Where?"
"In the great green bed with blue curtains, just above the kitchen."
"What nonsense is this?"
"The bed where you and I shall lie some day; and the kitchen which we
shall be sent down to, to turn our own spits, unless we mend our manners
mightily."
Hereward looked at the man. Madness glared in his eyes, unmistakably.
"You have killed him!"
"And buried him, cheating the priests."
"Villain!" cried Hereward, seizing him.
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