“Thou wast dubbed knight in that church!”
“I know it, man; and that church and the relics of the saints in it are safe, therefore. Hereward gives his word.”
“That,—but not that only, if thou art a true knight, as thou holdest, Englishman.”
Hereward growled savagely, and made an ugly step toward Herluin. That was a point which he would not have questioned.
“Then behave as a knight, and save, save,”—as the monks dragged him away,—“save the hospice! There are women,—ladies there!” shouted he, as he was borne off.
They never met again on earth; but both comforted themselves in after years, that two old enemies’ last deed in common had been one of mercy.
Hereward uttered a cry of horror. If the wild Letts, even the Jomsburgers, had got in, all was lost. He rushed to the door. It was not yet burst: but a bench, swung by strong arms, was battering it in fast.
“Winter! Geri! Siwards! To me, Hereward’s men! Stand back, fellows. Here are friends here inside. If you do not, I’ll cut you down.”
But in vain. The door was burst, and in poured the savage mob. Hereward, unable to stop them, headed them, or pretended to do so, with five or six of his own men round him, and went into the hall.
On the rushes lay some half-dozen grooms. They were butchered instantly, simply because they were there. Hereward saw, but could not prevent. He ran as hard as he could to the foot of the wooden stair which led to the upper floor.