And Judith, habited in widow's weeds, approached the tomb, and laid on it,
as a peace-offering to the manes of the dead, a splendid pall of silk and
gold.
A fierce blast came howling off the fen, screeched through the minster
towers, swept along the dark aisles; and then, so say the chroniclers,
caught up the pall from off the tomb, and hurled it far away into a
corner.
"A miracle!" cried all the monks at once; and honestly enough, like true
Englishmen as they were.
"The Holy heart refuses the gift, Countess," said old Ulfketyl in a voice
of awe.
Judith covered her face with her hands, and turned away trembling, and
walked out, while all looked upon her as a thing accursed.
Of her subsequent life, her folly, her wantonness, her disgrace, her
poverty, her wanderings, her wretched death, let others tell.
But these Normans believed that the curse of Heaven was upon her from that
day. And the best of them believed likewise that Waltheof's murder was the
reason that William, her uncle, prospered no more in life.
"Ah, saucy sir," said Alftruda to Ulfketyl, as she went out, "there is one
waiting at Peterborough now who will teach thee manners,--Ingulf of
Fontenelle, Abbot, in thy room."
"Does Hereward know that?" asked Ulfketyl, looking keenly at her.
"What is that to thee?" said she, fiercely, and flung out of the minster.
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