They had a long conversation that afternoon, wherein Grimbeard maintained that the position of the “merrie men,” who still kept up a struggle against the Government in the various great forests of the land, such as green Sherwood and the Andredsweald, were simply patriots maintaining a lawful struggle against foreign oppressors. Martin, on the other hand, maintained that the question was settled by Divine providence, and that the governors of alien blood were now the kings and magistrates to whom, according to Saint Paul, obedience was due. If two centuries did not establish prescriptive right, how long a period would?
“No length of time,” replied Grimbeard.
“Ah well, then, step father, suppose the poor Welsh, who once lived here, and whom my own remote forefathers destroyed or drove from these parts, were to send to say they would thank the descendants of the Saxons, Angles, and Jutes to go back to their ancient homes in Germany and Denmark, and leave the land to them according to the principle you have laid down. What should you then say?”
Grimbeard was fairly puzzled.
“Thou hast me on the hip, youngster.”
After this conversation Martin was so fatigued by the day’s walk and all the subsequent excitement, that his mother prepared for him a composing draught from the herbs of the wood, and made him drink it and go to bed; a sweet bed of fragrant leaves and coverlets of skins in one of the huts, where she lodged her dear boy, her recovered treasure—happy mother.
The following morning, overcome by the emotions of the preceding day, Martin slept long. He was dreaming of the battle of Senlac, where he was heading a charge, when he awoke to find that the sounds of real present strife had put Senlac into his head.
He sat upright, a confused dream of fighting and struggling still lingering in his distracted mind. No, it was no dream; he heard the actual cry of those who strove for mastery: the exulting yell:
“Englishmen, on! down, ye French tyrants!”