"
Hereward got up the ladder, took down the head and wrapped it in the
cloak, and ere he did so kissed the cold forehead. How he had hated that
boy! Well, at least he had never wilfully harmed him,--or the boy him
either, for that matter. And now he had died like a man, killing his foe.
He was of the true old blood after all. And Hereward felt that he would
have given all that he had, save his wife or his sword-hand, to have that
boy alive again, to pet him, and train him, and teach him to fight at his
side.
Then he slipped round to one of the narrow unshuttered windows and looked
in. The hall was in a wasteful blaze of light,--a whole month's candles
burning in one night. The table was covered with all his father's choicest
plate; the wine was running waste upon the floor; the men were lolling at
the table in every stage of drunkenness; the loose women, camp-followers,
and such like, almost as drunk as their masters; and at the table head,
most drunk of all, sat, in Earl Leofric's seat, the new Lord of Bourne.
Hereward could scarce believe his eyes. He was none other than Gilbert of
Ghent's stout Flemish cook, whom he had seen many a time in Scotland.
Hereward turned from the window in disgust; but looked again as he heard
words which roused his anger still more.
Pages:
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317