Then he kissed his mother, and called Winter and Gwenoch, and went forth.
He would be back again, he said, on the third day.
Then those three went to Peterborough, and asked for Abbot Brand. And the
monks let them in; for the fame of their deed had passed through the
forest, and all the French had fled.
And old Brand lay back in his great arm-chair, his legs all muffled up in
furs, for he could get no heat; and by him stood Herluin the prior, and
wondered when he would die, and Thorold take his place, and they should
drive out the old Gregorian chants from the choir, and have the new Norman
chants of Robert of Fecamp, and bring in French-Roman customs in all
things, and rule the English boors with a rod of iron.
And old Brand knew all that was in his heart, and looked up like a patient
ox beneath the butcher's axe, and said, "Have patience with me, Brother
Herluin, and I will die as soon as I can, and go where there is neither
French nor English, Jew nor Gentile, bond or free, but all are alike in
the eyes of Him who made them."
But when he saw Hereward come in, he cast the mufflers off him, and sprang
up from his chair, and was young and strong in a moment, and for a moment.
And he threw his arms round Hereward, and wept upon his neck, as his
mother had done.
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