"Yield or die!" cried the knight, leaping from his horse, and kneeling on
his head.
"I am a man of God, an abbot, churchman, Thorold."
"Man of all the devils!" and the knight lugged him up, and bound his arms
behind him with the abbot's own belt.
"Ahoi! Here! I have caught a fish. I have got the Golden Borough in my
purse!" roared he. "How much has St. Peter gained since we borrowed of him
last, Abbot? He will have to pay out the silver pennies bonnily, if he
wishes to get back thee."
"Blaspheme not, godless barbarian!" Whereat the knight kicked him.
"And you have Thorold the scoundrel, Winter?" cried Hereward, galloping
up. "And we have three or four more dainty French knights, and a viscount
of I know not where among them. This is a good day's work. Now for Ivo and
his tail."
And the Abbot, with four or five more prisoners, were hoisted on to their
own horses, tied firmly, and led away into the forest path.
"Do not leave a wounded man to die," cried a knight who lay on the lawn.
"Never we. I will come back and put you out of your pain," quoth some one.
"Siward! Siward Le Blanc! Are you in this meinie?" cried the knight in
French.
"That am I. Who calls?"
"For God's sake save him!" cried Thorold. "He is my own nephew, and I will
pay--"
"You will need all your money for yourself," said Siward the White, riding
back.
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