“His father’s wit, and his mother’s beauty!” said the great Countess, looking upon him. “Too, too like my own lost Harold!”
“Not so, my lady. I am a dwarf compared to him.” And Hereward led the garron on by the bridle, keeping his cap in hand, while all wondered who the dame could be, before whom Hereward the champion would so abase himself.
“Leofric’s son does me too much honor. He has forgotten, in his chivalry, that I am Godwin’s widow.”
“I have not forgotten that you are Sprakaleg’s daughter, and niece of Canute, king of kings. Neither have I forgotten that you are an English lady, in times in which all English folk are one, and all old English feuds are wiped away.”
“In English blood. Ah! if these last words of yours were true, as you, perhaps, might make them true, England might be saved even yet.”
“Saved?”
“If there were one man in it, who cared for aught but himself.”
Hereward was silent and thoughtful.
He had sent Martin back to his house, to tell Torfrida to prepare bath and food; for the Countess Gyda, with all her train, was coming to be her guest. And when they entered the court, Torfrida stood ready.
“Is this your lady?” asked Gyda, as Hereward lifted her from her horse.