“Why did you marry me, then?” asked he, half angrily.
“Because I loved you. Because I love you still.”
“Then you do not regret?”
“Never, never, never! I am quite happy,—quite happy. Why not?”
A low murmur from the men made them look up. They were near enough to the town to hear,—only too much. They heard the tramp of men, shouts and yells. Then the shrill cries of women. All dull and muffled the sounds came to them through the still night; and they lay there spell-bound, as in a nightmare, as men assisting at some horrible tragedy, which they had no power to prevent. Then there was a glare, and a wisp of smoke against the black sky, and then a house began burning brightly, and then another.
“This is the Frenchman’s faith!”
And all the while, as the sack raged in the town below, the minster stood above, dark, silent, and safe. The church had provided for herself, by sacrificing the children beneath her fostering shadow.
They waited nearly an hour: but no fugitives came out.
“Come, men,” said Hereward, wearily, “we may as well to the boats.”
And so they went, walking on like men in a dream, as yet too stunned to realize to themselves the hopeless horror of their situation. Only Hereward and Torfrida saw it all, looking back on the splendid past,—the splendid hopes for the future: glory, honor, an earldom, a free Danish England,—and this was all that was left!