He thought of a warm chamber, warm bath, warm footcloths, warm pheasant,
and warm wine. He kicked his freezing iron feet in the freezing iron
stirrup. He tried to blow his nose with his freezing iron hand; but dropt
his handkerchief into the mud, and his horse trod on it. He tried to
warble the song of Roland; but the words exploded in a cough and a sneeze.
And so dragged on the weary hours, says the chronicler, nearly all day,
till the ninth hour. But never did they see coming out of the forest the
men who had gone in.
A shout from his nephew, Sir Ascelin, made all turn their heads. Behind
them, on the open lawn, in the throat between the woods by which they had
entered, were some forty knights, galloping toward them.
"Ivo?"
"No!" almost shrieked the Abbot. "There is the white-bear banner. It is
Hereward."
"There is Winter on his left," cried one. "And there, with the standard,
is the accursed monk, Ranald of Ramsey."
And on they came, having debouched from the wood some two hundred yards
off, behind a roll in the lawn, just far enough off to charge as soon as
they were in line.
On they came, two deep, with lances high over their shoulders, heads and
heels well down, while the green tufts flew behind them, "_A moi, hommes
d'armes!_" shouted the Abbot. But too late.
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