Eagerly she moved towards him, in bland acceptance of his offer; however, before he could approach her, Ulwin had interposed himself, thundering:
"Lay by yon nasty trash! Straight shalt thou wend thee homeward! Spendthrift! Shameless woman! Is this a widow's mourning? Is this modesty? Come home, I say!"
He seized her by the arm, and in so doing trod heavily upon her toes. Alftrude's lips contracted, and her eyelids flickered with the pain, and she steadied herself against the gingerbread stall. Richard the Scrob was now beside them: with the first missile to hand, his own money-bag, he struck at the head of Ulwin; and Ulwin reeled and sat down upon the ground with a curse and a roar.
"Foul clot of dirt!" said Richard. "I will not have thee deal so with her!"
His money-bag was still in his right hand; but why was it no heavier than a strip of pigskin? Where was the reassuring weight to which he had grown used throughout that day?
"Look, look!" the ale-wife screamed. "His ill-gotten silver of itself runs from him! Gather, gather, I say—it is his no more! All these French are to be driven forth. Shall he hoard king's coin in our land?"
The well-worn bag had burst its seams, and pieces of money strewed the muddy ground.
Thralls, boys, and children hurled themselves upon them; they struggled, fought, kicked and clawed up the mud, laughed ecstatically, and rushed about the green, each hugging what he had secured.
The crimson faded from Richard's countenance, and he stood white as death and still as a stone. Alftrude hid her face in her hands.
"Up, Ulwin!" exclaimed Ednoth. "Let us drive his cattle to Worcester for him—to Hereford—or to hell! Down with the Frenchman! Long life to Earl Godwin!"