“Do you know, sirs, that he who lies there is your king?” asked a very tall and noble-looking knight.
“That do we not,” said Hereward, sharply. “There is no king in England this day, as far as I know. And there will be none north of the Watling Street, till he be chosen in full husting, and anointed at York, as well as Winchester or London. We have had one king made for us in the last forty years, and we intend to make the next ourselves.”
“And who art thou, who talkest so bold, of king-making?”
“And who art thou, who askest so bold who I am?”
“I am Waltheof Siwardsson, the Earl, and yon is my army behind me.”
“And I am Hereward Leofricsson, the outlaw, and yon is my army behind me.”
If the two champions had flown at each other’s throats, and their armies had followed their example, simply as dogs fly at each other, they know not why, no one would have been astonished in those unhappy times.
But it fell not out upon that wise; for Waltheof, leaping from his horse, pulled off his helmet, and seizing Hereward by both hands, cried,—
“Blessed is the day which sees again in England Hereward, who has upheld throughout all lands and seas the honor of English chivalry!”
“And blessed is the day in which Hereward meets the head of the house of Siward where he should be, at the head of his own men, in his own earldom. When I saw my friend, thy brother Osbiorn, brought into the camp at Dunsinane with all his wounds in front, I wept a young man’s tears, and said, ‘There ends the glory of the White-Bear’s house!’ But this day I say, the White-Bear’s blood is risen from the grave in Waltheof Siwardsson, who with his single axe kept the gate of York against all the army of the French; and who shall keep against them all England, if he will be as wise as he is brave.”