“I went of my free-will and you because you were fetched,” said the Rifle Volunteer. “Two years ago I saw you walking down this road under my patriotic legs, a wretched, drag-heel conscript.”
“He never fought in any war that I know of,” thought Tom, “and yit I reckon thur used to be wars in these parts in the oald days. Minister says the country’s full of thur naums. I doan’t know naun, surelye.”
The east wind blew from Senlac, sweet with the scent of the ash-trees growing on the barrow where Saxon and Norman lay tumbled together in the brotherhood of sleep.
“Here—when a great whinny moor rolled down from Anderida to the sea, and Pevens Isle and Horse Isle were green in the bight of the bay, and the family of the Heastings had finished building their ham by the coast—here used to be the Lake of Blood, where hearts were drowned. A red tun stands on it now, and good folk come to it on market-days. Thus shall it be with all wars—out of the red blood the red town, and under the green barrows friend and foe, tumbled together in the brotherhood of sleep.”
The east wind like a Saxon ghost whistled against Tom’s neck.
“We fought as you did once—we hated the Norman as you hate the German, yet look how peacefully we sleep together.”
“They must have been funny,” thought Tom, “those oald wars wud bows and arrows.”
“Harold! Harold!... Rollo! Rollo!” cried the ghosts on the east wind from Senlac.
“God save the Queen,” said the Rifle Volunteer.