She looked the priest over
from head to foot, till he was abashed.
"A Frenchman!" said she, and she said no more.
The priest looked at her eyes, and then at the hawk's eyes. They were
disagreeably like each other. He told his errand as courteously as he
could, for he was not a bad-hearted man for a Norman priest.
The lass laughed him to scorn. The King's commands? She never saw a king
in the greenwood, and cared for none. There was no king in England now,
since Sweyn Ulfsson sailed back to Denmark. Who was this Norman William,
to sell a free English lass like a colt or a cow? The priest might go back
to the slaves of Wessex, and command them if he could; but in the fens,
men were free, and lasses too.
The priest was piously shocked and indignant; and began to argue.
She played with her hawk, instead of listening, and then was marching out
of the room.
"Your mother," said he, "is a sorceress."
"You are a knave, or set on by knaves. You lie, and you know you lie." And
she turned away again.
"She has confessed it."
"You have driven her mad between you, till she will confess anything. I
presume you threatened to burn her, as some of you did awhile back." And
the young lady made use of words equally strong and true.
The priest was not accustomed to the direct language of the greenwood, and
indignant on his own account, threatened, and finally offered to use,
force.
Pages:
589
590
591
592
593
594
595
596
597
598
599
600
601
602
603
604
605
606
607
608
609
610
611
612
613