The news had a deep and lasting effect on her. The thought of Richilda
shivering and starving in the squalid darkness of a convent, abode by her
thenceforth. Should she ever find herself atoning in like wise for her
sorceries,--harmless as they had been; for her ambitions,--just as they
had been; for her crimes? But she had committed none. No, she had sinned
in many things: but she was not as Richilda. And yet in the loneliness and
sadness of the forest, she could not put Richilda from before the eyes of
her mind.
It saddened Hereward likewise. For Richilda he cared little. But that boy.
How he had loved him! How he had taught him to ride, and sing, and joust,
and handle sword, and all the art of war. How his own rough soul had been
the better for that love. How he had looked forward to the day when Arnoul
should be a great prince, and requite him with love. Now he was gone.
Gone? Who was not gone, or going? He seemed to himself the last tree in
the forest. When should his time come, and the lightning strike him down
to rot beside the rest? But he tost the sad thoughts aside. He could not
afford to nourish them. It was his only chance of life, to be merry and
desperate.
"Well!" said Hereward, ere they hapt themselves up for the night. "We owe
you thanks, Abbot Thorold, for an evening worthy of a king's court, rather
than a holly-bush.
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