You speak like Hereward,
you look like Hereward. Just what Hereward would be now, you are. You are
my lord, and you cannot deny it."
"Perry, if you know me, speak of me to no living soul, save to your lady
my mother; and let me and my serving-man go free out of your yard-gate. If
I ask you before morning to open it again to me, you will know that there
is not a Frenchman left in the Hall of Bourne."
Perry threw his arms around him, and embraced him silently.
"Get me only," said Hereward, "some long woman's gear and black mantle, if
you can, to cover this bright armor of mine."
Perry went off in silence as one stunned,--brought the mantle, and let
them out of the yard-gate. In ten minutes more, the two slipping in by
well-known paths, stood under the gable of the great hall. Not a soul was
stirring outside. The serfs were all cowering in their huts like so many
rabbits in their burrows, listening in fear to the revelry of their new
tyrants. The night was dark: but not so dark but that Hereward could see
between him and the sky his brother's long locks floating in the breeze.
"That I must have down, at least," said he, in a low voice.
"Then here is wherewithal," said Martin Lightfoot, as he stumbled over
something. "The drunken villains have left the ladder in the yard.
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