At last she was aware of a man close beside her. He had been following her
a long way, she recollected now; but she had not feared him, even heeded
him. But when he laid his hand upon her arm, she turned fiercely, but
without dread.
She looked to see if it was Hereward. To meet him would be death. If it
were not he, she cared not who it was. It was not Hereward; and she cried
angrily, "Off! off!" and hurried on.
"But you are going the wrong way! The wrong way!" said the voice of Martin
Lightfoot.
"The wrong way! Fool, which is the right way for me, save the path which
leads to a land where all is forgotten?"
"To Crowland! To Crowland! To the minster! To the monks! That is the only
right way for poor wretches in a world like this. The Lady Godiva told you
you must go to Crowland. And now you are going. I too, I ran away from a
monastery when I was young; and now I am going back. Come along!"
"You are right! Crowland, Crowland; and a nun's cell till death. Which is
the way, Martin?"
"O, a wise lady! A reasonable lady! But you will be cold before you get
thither. There will be a frost ere morn. So, when I saw you run out, I
caught up something to put over you."
Torfrida shuddered, as Martin wrapped her in the white bearskin.
"No! Not that! Anything but that!" and she struggled to shake it off.
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