Hereward answered, in his boasting vein, that he would bring home that mare, or aught else that he had a liking to.
“You will find it not so easy. Her owner, they say, is a mighty strong churl of a horse-breeder, Dirk Hammerhand by name; and as for cutting his throat, that you must not do; for he has been loyal to Countess Gertrude, and sent her horses whenever she needed.”
“One may pick a fair quarrel with him nevertheless.”
“Then you must bide such a buffet as you never abode before. They say his arm has seven men’s strength; and whosoever visits him, he challenges to give and take a blow; but every man that has taken a blow as yet has never needed another.”
“Hereward will have need of his magic head-piece, if he tries that adventure,” quoth another.
“Ay,” retorted the first speaker; “but the helmet may stand the rap well enough, and yet the brains inside be the worse.”
“Not a doubt. I knew a man once, who was so strong, that he would shake a nut till the kernel went to powder, and yet never break the shell.”
“That is a lie!” quoth Hereward. And so it was, and told purposely to make him expose himself.
Whereon high words followed, which Torfrida tried in vain to stop. Hereward was flushed with ire and scorn.
“Magic armor, forsooth!” cried he at last. “What care I for armor or for magic? I will wager to you”—“my armor,” he was on the point of saying, but he checked himself in time—“any horse in my stable, that I go in my shirt to Scaldmariland, and bring back that mare single-handed.”