But before Count Robert and Hereward could collect sufficient troops for the invasion of Holland, another chance of being slain in fight arose, too tempting to be overlooked; namely, the annual tournament at Pont de l’Arche above Rouen, where all the noblest knights of Normandy would assemble, to win their honor and ladies’ love by hewing at each other’s sinful bodies. Thither, too, the best knights of Flanders must needs go, and with them Hereward. Though no knight, he was allowed in Flanders, as he had been in Scotland, to take his place among that honorable company. For, though he still refused the honor of knighthood, on the ground that he had, as yet, done no deed deserving thereof, he was held to have deserved it again and again, and all the more from his modesty in declining it. So away they all went to Pont de l’Arche, a right gallant meinie: and Torfrida watched them go from the lattice window. And when they had passed down the street, tramping and jingling and caracoling, young Arnulf ran into the house with eyes full of tears, because he was not allowed to go likewise; and with a message for Torfrida, from no other than Hereward. “I was to tell you this and no more: that if he meets your favor in the field, he that wears it will have hard work to keep it.” Torfrida turned pale as ashes; first with wild delight, and then with wild fear. “Ha?--does he know who--Sir Ascelin?” “He knows well enough. Why not? Every one knows. Are you afraid that he is not a match for that great bullock?” “Afraid? Who said I was afraid? Sir Ascelin is no bullock either; but a courteous and gallant knight.” “You are as pale as death, and so--” “Never mind what I am,” said she, putting her hands over his eyes, and kissing him again and again, as a vent for her joy. The next few days seemed years for length: but she could wait. She was sure of him now. She needed no charms. “Perhaps,” thought she, as she looked in the glass, “I was my own charm.” And, indeed, she had every fair right to say so. At last news came. She was sitting over her books; her mother, as usual, was praying in the churches; when the old Lapp nurse came in. A knight was at the door. His name, he said, was Siward the White, and he came from Hereward. From Hereward! He was at least alive: he might be wounded, though; and she rushed out of the chamber into the hall, looking never more beautiful; her color heightened by the quick beating of her heart; her dark hair, worn loose and long, after the fashion of those days, streaming around her and behind her. A handsome young man stood in the door-way, armed from head to foot. “You are Siward, Hereward’s nephew?” He bowed assent. She took him by the hands, and, after the fashion of those days, kissed him on the small space on either cheek, which was left bare between the nose-piece and the chain-mail. “You are welcome. Hereward is--is alive?”