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Kingsley, Charles, 1819-1875

"Hereward, the Last of the English"


After a dreadful month, Martin came mysteriously to her again. She
trembled, for she had remarked in him lately a strange change. He had lost
his usual loquacity and quaint humor; and had fallen back into that sullen
taciturnity, which, so she heard, he had kept up in his youth. He, too,
must know evil which he dared not tell.
"There is another letter come. It came last night," said he.
"What is that to thee or me? My lord has his state secrets. Is it for us
to pry into them? Go!"
"I thought--I thought--"
"Go, I say!"
"That your ladyship might wish for a guide to Crowland."
"Crowland?" almost shrieked Torfrida, for the thought of Crowland had
risen in her own wretched mind instantly and involuntarily. "Go, madman!"
Martin went. Torfrida paced madly up and down the farmhouse. Then she
settled herself into fierce despair.
There was a noise of trampling horses outside. The men were arming and
saddling, seemingly for a raid.
Hereward hurried in for his armor. When he saw Torfrida, he blushed
scarlet.
"You want your arms," said she, quietly; "let me fetch them."
"No, never mind. I can harness myself; I am going southwest, to pay
Taillebois a visit. I am in a great hurry, I shall be back in three days.
Then--good-by."
He snatched his arms off a perch, and hurried out again, dragging them on.


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