And the two turned haughtily from each other. Ere Torfrida went to bed that night, there was a violent knocking. Angry as she was, she was yet anxious enough to hurry out of her chamber, and open the door herself. Martin Lightfoot stood there with a large leather case, which he flung at her feet somewhat unceremoniously. “There is some gear of yours,” said he, as it clanged and rattled on the floor. “What do you mean, man?” “Only that my master bid me say that he cares as little for his own life as you do.” And he turned away. She caught him by the arm:-- “What is the meaning of this? What is in this mail?” “You should know best. If young folks cannot be content when they are well off, they will go farther and fare worse,” says Martin Lightfoot. And he slipt from her grasp and fled into the night. She took the mail to her room and opened it. It contained the magic armor. All her anger was melted away. She cried; she blamed herself. He would be killed; his blood would be on her head. She would have carried it back to him with her own hands; she would have entreated him on her knees to take it back. But how face the courtiers? and how find him? Very probably, too, he was by that time hopelessly drunk. And at that thought she drew herself into herself, and trying to harden her heart again, went to bed, but not to sleep; and bitterly she cried as she thought over the old hag’s croon:-- “Quick joy, long pain, You will take your gift again.” It might have been five o’clock the next morning when the clarion rang down the street. She sprang up and drest herself quickly; but never more carefully or gayly. She heard the tramp of horse-hoofs. He was moving a-field early, indeed. Should she go to the window to bid him farewell? Should she hide herself in just anger? She looked out stealthily through the blind of the little window in the gable. There rode down the street Robert le Frison in full armor, and behind him, knight after knight, a wall of shining steel. But by his side rode one bare-headed, his long yellow curls floating over his shoulders. His boots had golden spurs, a gilt belt held up his sword; but his only dress was a silk shirt and silk hose. He laughed and sang, and made his horse caracol, and tossed his lance in the air, and caught it by the point, like Taillefer at Hastings, as he passed under the window. She threw open the blind, careless of all appearances. She would have called to him: but the words choked her; and what should she say? He looked up boldly, and smiled. “Farewell, fair lady mine. Drunk I was last night: but not so drunk as to forget a promise.” And he rode on, while Torfrida rushed away and broke into wild weeping. CHAPTER XIII. HOW HEREWARD WON MARE SWALLOW.