Because I love you still."
"Then you do not regret?"
"Never, never, never! I am quite happy,--quite happy. Why not?"
A low murmur from the men made them look up. They were near enough to the
town to hear,--only too much. They heard the tramp of men, shouts and
yells. Then the shrill cries of women. All dull and muffled the sounds
came to them through the still night; and they lay there spell-bound, as
in a nightmare, as men assisting at some horrible tragedy, which they had
no power to prevent. Then there was a glare, and a wisp of smoke against
the black sky, and then a house began burning brightly, and then another.
"This is the Frenchman's faith!"
And all the while, as the sack raged in the town below, the minster stood
above, dark, silent, and safe. The church had provided for herself, by
sacrificing the children beneath her fostering shadow.
They waited nearly an hour: but no fugitives came out.
"Come, men," said Hereward, wearily, "we may as well to the boats."
And so they went, walking on like men in a dream, as yet too stunned to
realize to themselves the hopeless horror of their situation. Only
Hereward and Torfrida saw it all, looking back on the splendid past,--the
splendid hopes for the future: glory, honor, an earldom, a free Danish
England,--and this was all that was left!
"No it is not!" cried Torfrida suddenly, as if answering her own unspoken
thoughts, and his.
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