“Ride on!” roared Hereward from the ground. “Ride at them, and strike hard! You will soon find out which is which. This booty I must pick for myself. What are you at?” roared he, after his knights. “Spread off the road, and keep your line, as I told you, and don’t override each other! Curse the hot-headed fools! The Normans will scatter them like sparrows. Run on, men-at-arms, to stop the French if we are broken. And don’t forget Guisnes field and the horses’ legs. Now, King, are you come to life yet?”
“You have killed him,” quoth Leofric the deacon, whom Hereward had beckoned to stop with him.
“I hope not. Lend me a knife. He is a much slighter man than I fancied,” said Hereward, as they got his helmet off.
And when it was off, both started and stared. For they had uncovered, not the beetling brow, Roman nose, and firm curved lip of the Ulysses of the middle age, but the face of a fair lad, with long straw-colored hair, and soft blue eyes staring into vacancy.
“Who are you?” shouted Hereward, saying very bad words, “who come here aping the name of king?”
“Mother! Christina! Margaret! Waltheof Earl!” moaned the lad, raising his head and letting it fall again.
“It is the Atheling!” cried Leofric.
Hereward rose, and stood over the boy.
“Ah! what was I doing to handle him so tenderly? I took him for the Mamzer, and thought of a king’s ransom.”
“Do you call that tenderly? You have nigh pulled the boy’s head off.”