“His own mother,” said he, after a while.
“What is that to thee?” said Lady Godiva, blushing and kindling.
“Nothing: I had no mother. But God has one!”
“What meanest thou, knave? Wilt thou take the letter or no?”
“I will take it.” And he again looked at it without rising off his knee. “His own father, too.”
“What is that to thee, I say again?”
“Nothing: I have no father. But God’s Son has one!”
“What wilt thou, thou strange man?” asked she, puzzled and half-frightened; “and how camest thou to know what is in this letter?”
“Who does not know? A city that is set on a hill cannot be hid. On the fourth day from this I will be back.”
And Martin rose, and putting the letter solemnly into the purse at his girdle, shot out of the door with clenched teeth, as a man upon a fixed purpose which it would lighten his heart to carry out. He ran rapidly through the large outer hall, past the long oak table, at which Hereward and his boon companions were drinking and roistering; and as he passed the young lord he cast on him a look so full of meaning, that though Hereward knew not what the meaning was, it startled him, and for a moment softened him. Did this man who had sullenly avoided him for more than two years, whom he had looked on as a clod or a post in the field beneath his notice, since he could be of no use to him,—did this man still care for him? Hereward had reason to know better than most that there was something strange and uncanny about the man. Did he mean him well? Or had he some grudge against him, which made him undertake this journey willingly and out of spite?—possibly with the will to make bad worse. For an instant Hereward’s heart misgave him. He would stop the letter at all risks. “Hold him!” he cried to his comrades.