“Blaspheme not, godless barbarian!” Whereat the knight kicked him.
“And you have Thorold the scoundrel, Winter?” cried Hereward, galloping up. “And we have three or four more dainty French knights, and a viscount of I know not where among them. This is a good day’s work. Now for Ivo and his tail.”
And the Abbot, with four or five more prisoners, were hoisted on to their own horses, tied firmly, and led away into the forest path.
“Do not leave a wounded man to die,” cried a knight who lay on the lawn.
“Never we. I will come back and put you out of your pain,” quoth some one.
“Siward! Siward Le Blanc! Are you in this meinie?” cried the knight in French.
“That am I. Who calls?”
“For God’s sake save him!” cried Thorold. “He is my own nephew, and I will pay—”
“You will need all your money for yourself,” said Siward the White, riding back.
“Are you Sir Ascelin of Ghent?”