"
"He is dying,--dying of a broken heart, like me. And the Frenchman has
given his abbey to one Thorold, the tyrant of Malmesbury,--a Frenchman
like himself. No, take me where I shall never see a French face. Take me
to Crowland--and him with me--where I shall see naught but English faces,
and hear English chants, and die a free Englishwoman under St. Guthlac's
wings."
"Ah!" said Hereward, bitterly, "St. Guthlac is a right Englishman, and
will have some sort of fellow-feeling for us; while St. Peter, of course,
is somewhat too fond of Rome and those Italian monks. Well,--blood is
thicker than water; so I hardly blame the blessed Apostle."
"Do not talk so, Hereward."
"Much the saints have done for us, mother, that we are to be so very
respectful to their high mightinesses. I fear, if this Frenchman goes on
with his plan of thrusting his monks into our abbeys, I shall have to do
more even for St. Guthlac than ever he did for me. Do not say more,
mother. This night has made Hereward a new man. Now, prepare"--and she
knew what he meant--"and gather all your treasures; and we will start for
Crowland to-morrow afternoon."
CHAPTER XX.
HOW HEREWARD WAS MADE A KNIGHT AFTER THE FASHION OF THE ENGLISH.
A wild night was that in Bourne. All the folk, free and unfree, man and
woman, out on the streets, asking the meaning of those terrible shrieks,
followed by a more terrible silence.
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