When men had offered to take it, he had drawn a battle-axe
from under his frock, and threatened to brain all comers. And the monks
had warned off Ascelin, saying that the man was mad, and had Berserk fits
of superhuman strength and rage.
"He will give it me!" said Torfrida, and went out.
"Look at that gable, foolish head," said the madman. "Ten years agone, you
and I took down from thence another head. O foolish head, to get yourself
at last up into that same place! Why would you not be ruled by her, you
foolish golden head?"
"Martin!" said Torfrida.
"Take it and comb it, mistress, as you used to do. Comb out the golden
locks again, fit to shine across the battle-field. She has let them get
all tangled into elf-knots, that lazy slut within."
Torfrida took it from his hands, dry-eyed, and went in.
Then the monks silently took up the bier, and all went forth, and down the
hill toward the fen. They laid the corpse within the barge, and slowly
rowed away.
And on by Porsad and by Asendyke,
By winding reaches on, and shining meres
Between gray reed-ronds and green alder-beds,
A dirge of monks and wail of women rose
In vain to Heaven for the last Englishman;
Then died far off within the boundless mist,
And left the Norman master of the land.
So Torfrida took the corpse home to Crowland, and buried it in the choir,
near the blessed martyr St.
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