“Where?”
“At Stanford Brigg, by York Town.”
“Harold Godwinsson slew Harold Sigurdsson? After this wolves may eat lions!”
“The Godwinsson is a gallant fighter, and a wise general, or I had not been here now.”
“Get on thy horse, man!” said he, scornfully and impatiently, “and gallop, if thou canst.”
“I have ridden many a mile in Ireland, Earl, and have not forgotten my seat.”
“Thou hast, hast thou?” said Martin; “thou art Thord Gunlaugsson of Waterford.”
“That am I. How knowest thou me, man?”
“I am of Waterford. Thou hadst a slave lass once, I think; Mew: they called her Mew, her skin it was so white.”
“What’s that to thee?” asked Thord, turning on him savagely.