Martin went. Torfrida paced madly up and down the farmhouse. Then she settled herself into fierce despair.
There was a noise of trampling horses outside. The men were arming and saddling, seemingly for a raid.
Hereward hurried in for his armor. When he saw Torfrida, he blushed scarlet.
“You want your arms,” said she, quietly; “let me fetch them.”
“No, never mind. I can harness myself; I am going southwest, to pay Taillebois a visit. I am in a great hurry, I shall be back in three days. Then—good-by.”
He snatched his arms off a perch, and hurried out again, dragging them on. As he passed her, he offered to kiss her; she put him back, and helped him on with his armor, while he thanked her confusedly.
“He was as glad not to kiss me, after all!”
She looked after him as he stood, his hand on his horse’s withers. How noble he looked! And a great yearning came over her. To throw her arms round his neck once, and then to stab herself, and set him free, dying, as she had lived, for him.
Two bonny boys were wrestling on the lawn, young outlaws who had grown up in the forest with ruddy cheeks and iron limbs.
“Ah, Winter!” she heard him say, “had I had such a boy as that!—”