“What is mine is Hereward’s, God bless him,” said the man, struggling into a garment, and hurrying out to the shed.
“There is a ghost against the gate!” cried he, recoiling.
“That is my matter, not yours. Get me a horse to put the ghost upon.”
Torfrida lay against the gate-post, exhausted now; but quite unable to think. Martin lifted her on to the beast, and led her onward, holding her up again and again.
“You are tired. You had run four miles before I could make you hear me.”
“Would I had run four thousand.” And she relapsed into stupor.
They passed out of the forest, across open wolds, and at last down to the river. Martin knew of a boat there. He lifted her from the horse, turned him loose, put Torfrida into the boat, and took the oars.
She looked up, and saw the roofs of Bourne shining white in the moonlight.
And then she lifted up her voice, and shrieked three times:
“Lost! Lost! Lost!”