But a darkness, as of Egypt, lay upon them: "neither rose
any from his place."
Then the Frenchmen cried: "This darkness is from St. Cuthbert himself. We
have invaded his holy soil. Who has not heard how none who offend St.
Cuthbert ever went unpunished? how palsy, blindness, madness, fall on
those who dare to violate his sanctuary?"
And the French turned and fled from before the face of St. Cuthbert; and
William went down to Winchester angry and sad, and then went off to
Gloucestershire; and hunted--for, whatever befell, he still would hunt--in
the forest of Dean.
And still Swend and his Danes had not sailed; and Hereward walked to and
fro in his house, impatiently, and bided his time.
In July, Baldwin died. Arnoul, the boy, was Count of Flanders, and
Richilda, his sorceress-mother, ruled the land in his name. She began to
oppress the Flemings; not those of French Flanders, round St. Omer, but
those of Flemish Flanders, toward the north. They threatened to send for
Robert the Frison to right them.
Hereward was perplexed. He was Robert the Frison's friend, and old
soldier. Richilda was Torfrida's friend; so was, still more, the boy
Arnoul; which party should he take? Neither, if he could help it. And he
longed to be safe out of the land.
And at last his time came.
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