From under the elm stepped Ingelric the aged thane of Caynham, his beard half-covering his flowing moss-green robe.
"No, no, it is unseemly!" he said. "Richard is my friend; he saved me once from debt and loss. If any man befriend me——"
"Good folk," stuttered Kenric behind him, "this is more than a game! We are not thieves."
But Ednoth and Grim had torn down the hurdles of the pen; the crowd had once more concentrated on that spot, and in another instant, shouting and shrieking, babbling and cheering, they chased and pelted the cattle of Richard the Scrob down Ludford street and out into the open country beyond.
Alftrude had flung her arms about Ulwin. She seemed in a swoon: no, she was not fainting; her cheeks were aglow, and her finger-nails were embedded in her brother-in-law's neck.
"Perot! Howel!" called Richard. "Come on, come on! To me!"
The English, in their zeal for the dispersal of his cattle, had forgotten him. He ran between the outlying houses, followed by his servants, and upon the outskirts of the town they came face to face with the main body of the rabble, and drew their short swords.
"Ere ye farther go," said Richard, "ye shall slay me and my men!"
They bombarded the three with stones and dirt; a woman threw an egg, another hurled her market-basket with uncertain aim.
"Tear him limb from limb!" snarled someone. "Surer rid of him so than by banishment!"