And when he opened the letter, and looked first, like a wary man, at the
signature, a sudden thrill went through him.
It was Alftruda's.
If he was interested in her, considering what had passed between them from
her childhood, it was nothing to be ashamed of. And yet somehow he felt
ashamed of that same sudden thrill.
And Hereward had reason to be ashamed. He had been faithful to
Torfrida,--a virtue most rare in those days. Few were faithful then, save,
it may be, Baldwin of Mons to his tyrant and idol, the sorceress Richilda;
and William of Normandy,--whatever were his other sins,--to his wise and
sweet and beautiful Matilda. The stories of his coldness and cruelty to
her seem to rest on no foundation. One need believe them as little as one
does the myth of one chronicler, that when she tried to stop him from some
expedition, and clung to him as he sat upon his horse, he smote his spur
so deep into her breast that she fell dead. The man had self-control, and
feared God in his own wild way,--therefore it was, perhaps, that he
conquered.
And Hereward had been faithful likewise to Torfrida, and loved her with an
overwhelming adoration, as all true men love. And for that very reason he
was the more aware that his feeling for Alftruda was strangely like his
feeling for Torfrida, and yet strangely different.
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