I thought
that all the men I ever slew on earth came to me with their wounds all
gaping, and cried at me, 'Our luck then, thy luck now.' Chaplain! is there
not a verse somewhere,--Uncle Brand said it to me on his deathbed,--'Whoso
sheddeth man's blood, by man shall his blood be shed'?"
"Surely the master is fey," whispered Gwenoch in fear to the chaplain.
"Answer him out of Scripture."
"Text? None such that I know of," quoth Priest Ailward, a graceless fellow
who had taken Leofric's place. "If that were the law, it would be but few
honest men that would die in their beds. Let us drink, and drive girls'
fancies out of our heads."
So they drank again; and Hereward fell asleep once more.
"It is thy turn to watch, Priest," said Gwenoch to Ailward. "So keep the
door well, for I am worn out with hunting," and so fell asleep.
Ailward shuffled into his harness, and went to the door. The wine was
heady; the sun was hot. In a few minutes he was asleep likewise.
Hereward slept, who can tell how long? But at last there was a bustle, a
heavy fall; and waking with a start, he sprang up. He saw Ailward lying
dead across the gate, and above him a crowd of fierce faces, some of which
he knew too well. He saw Ivo Taillebois; he saw Oger; he saw his
fellow-Breton, Sir Raoul de Dol; he saw Sir Ascelin; he saw Sir Aswa,
Thorold's man; he saw Sir Hugh of Evermue, his own son-in-law; and with
them he saw, or seemed to see, the Ogre of Cornwall, and O'Brodar of
Ivark, and Dirk Hammerhand of Walcheren, and many another old foe long
underground; and in his ear rang the text,--"Whoso sheddeth man's blood,
by man shall his blood be shed.
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