“That is St. Etheldreda shooting at us, eh? Then all I can say is, she is a very bad marksman. And the French are in the island?”
“They are.”
“Then forward, men, for one half-hour’s pleasure; and then to die like Englishmen.”
“On?” cried Alwyn. “You cannot go on. The King is at Whichford at this moment with all his army, half a mile off! Right across the road to Ely!”
Hereward grew Berserk. “On! men!” shouted he, “we shall kill a few Frenchmen apiece before we die!”
“Hereward,” cried Torfrida, “you shall not go on! If you go, I shall be taken. And if I am taken, I shall be burned. And I cannot burn,—I cannot! I shall go mad with terror before I come to the stake. I cannot go stript to my smock before those Frenchmen. I cannot be roasted piecemeal! Hereward, take me away! Take me away! or kill me, now and here!”
He paused. He had never seen Torfrida thus overcome.
“Let us flee! The stars are against us. God is against us! Let us hide,—escape abroad: beg our bread, go on pilgrimage to Jerusalem together,—for together it must be always: but take me away!”
“We will go back to the boats, men,” said Hereward.
But they did not go. They stood there, irresolute, looking towards Ely.