“Where shall we stow the mare?” asked Geri, “the boats are full already.”
“Leave her to me. On board, Torfrida.”
He got on board last, leading the mare by the bridle.
“Swim, good lass!” said he, as they pushed off; and the good lass, who had done it many a time before, waded in, and was soon swimming behind. Hereward turned, and bent over the side in the darkness. There was a strange gurgle, a splash, and a swirl. He turned round, and sat upright again. They rowed on.
“That mare will never swim all the way to Well,” said one.
“She will not need it,” said Hereward.
“Why,” cried Torfrida, feeling in the darkness, “she is loose. What is this in your hand? Your dagger! And wet!”
“Mare Swallow is at the bottom of the reach. We could never have got her to Well.”
“And you have—” cried a dozen voices.
“Do you think that I would let a cursed Frenchman—ay, even William’s self—say that he had bestridden Hereward’s mare?”