They are going to send for the Abbot from Angerhale,"
said Torfrida at last, reeling from the door, "All is lost."
"Shall we burst open the door and kill them all?" asked Ranald, simply.
"No, King,--no. They are God's men; and we have blood enough on our
souls."
"We can keep the gates, lest any go out to the King."
"Impossible. They know the isle better than we, and have a thousand arts."
So all they could do was to wait in fear and trembling for Hereward's
return, and send Martin Lightfoot off to warn him, wherever he might be.
The monks remained perfectly quiet. The organ droned, the chants wailed,
as usual; nothing interrupted the stated order of the services; and in the
hall, each day, they met the knights as cheerfully as ever. Greed and
superstition had made cowards of them,--and now traitors.
It was whispered that Abbot Thurstan had returned to the minster; but no
man saw him; and so three or four days went on.
Martin found Hereward after incredible labors, and told him all, clearly
and shrewdly. The man's manifest insanity only seemed to quicken his wit,
and increase his powers of bodily endurance.
Hereward was already on his way home; and never did he and his good men
row harder than they rowed that day back to Sutton. He landed, and hurried
on with half his men, leaving the rest to disembark the booty.
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