She almost snatched it from his hand, in her delight at recovering her favor.
“How—where—did he get this?”
“He saw it, in the thick of the tournament, on the helm of a knight who, he knew, had vowed to maim him or take his life; and, wishing to give him a chance of fulfilling his vow, rode him down, horse and man. The knight’s Norman friends attacked us in force; and we Flemings, with Hereward at our head, beat them off, and overthrew so many, that we are almost all horsed at the Norman’s expense. Three more knights, with their horses, fell before Hereward’s lance.”
“And what of this favor?”
“He sends it to its owner. Let her say what shall be done with it.”
Torfrida was on the point of saying, “He has won it; let him wear it for my sake.” But she paused. She longed to see Hereward face to face; to speak to him, if but one word. If she allowed him to wear the favor, she must at least have the pleasure of giving it with her own hands. And she paused.
“And he is killed?”
“Who? Hereward?”
“Sir Ascelin.”
“Only bruised; but he shall be killed, if you will.”