For in the open space nearest the door stood a gleeman, a dancing,
harping, foul-mouthed fellow, who was showing off ape's tricks, jesting
against the English, and shuffling about in mockeries of English dancing.
At some particularly coarse jest of his, the new Lord of Bourne burst into
a roar of admiration.
"Ask what thou wilt, fellow, and thou shalt have it. Thou wilt find me a
better master to thee than ever was Morcar, the English barbarian."
The scoundrel, say the old chroniclers, made a request concerning
Hereward's family which cannot be printed here.
Hereward ground his teeth. "If thou livest till morning light," said he,
"I will not."
The last brutality awoke some better feeling in one of the girls,--a large
coarse Fleming, who sat by the new lord's side. "Fine words," said she,
scornfully enough, "for the sweepings of Norman and Flemish kennels. You
forget that you left one of this very Leofric's sons behind in Flanders,
who would besom all out if he was here before the morning's dawn."
"Hereward?" cried the cook, striking her down with a drunken blow; "the
scoundrel who stole the money which the Frisians sent to Count Baldwin,
and gave it to his own troops? We are safe enough from him at all events;
he dare not show his face on this side the Alps, for fear of the gallows.
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