And when
they came back, and Torfrida was washing her feet, sore and bleeding from
her pilgrimage, Hereward came in.
"You have murdered your poor soft feet, and taken nothing thereby, I
fear."
"I have. If I had walked on sharp razors all the way, I would have done it
gladly, to know what I know now. As I prayed I looked out over the fen;
and St. Etheldreda put a thought into my heart. But it is so terrible a
one, that I fear to tell it to you. And yet it seems our only chance."
Hereward threw himself at her feet, and prayed her to tell. At last she
spoke, as one half afraid of her own words,--
"Will the reeds burn, Hereward?"
Hereward kissed her feet again and again, calling her his prophetess, his
savior.
"Burn! yes, like tinder, in this March wind, if the drought only holds.
Pray that the drought may hold, Torfrida."
"There, there, say no more. How hard-hearted war makes even us women!
There, help me to take off this rough sackcloth, and dress myself again."
Meanwhile William had moved his army again to Cambridge, and on to
Willingham field, and there he began to throw up those "globos and
montanas," of which Leofric's paraphraser talks, but of which now no trace
remains. Then he began to rebuild his causeway, broader and stronger; and
commanded all the fishermen of the Ouse to bring their boats to
Cotinglade, and ferry over his materials.
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