Hereward swore awfully, and laid his hand on his sword-hilt. But he did not draw it; for he thought he saw overhead a cloud which was very like the figure of St. Guthlac in Crowland window, and an awe fell upon him from above.
So they came to Crowland; and Hereward landed and beat upon the gates, and spoke high words. But the monks did not open the gates for a while. At last the gates creaked, and opened; and in the gateway stood Abbot Ulfketyl in his robes of state, and behind him Prior, and all the officers, and all the monks of the house.
“Comes Hereward in peace or in war?”
“In war!” said Hereward.
Then that true and trusty old man, who sealed his patriotism, if not with his blood,—for the very Normans had not the heart to take that,—still with long and bitter sorrows, lifted up his head, and said, like a valiant Dane, as his name bespoke him: “Against the traitor and the adulterer—”
“I am neither,” roared Hereward.
“Thou wouldst be, if thou couldst. Whoso looketh upon a woman to—”
“Preach me no sermons, man! Let me in to seek my wife.”
“Over my body,” said Ulfketyl, and laid himself down across the threshold.
Hereward recoiled. If he had dared to step over that sacred body, there was not a blood-stained ruffian in his crew who dared to follow him.