Married to a beggar! It was a strange accident; and an ugly one; and a great cruelty and wrong. But it was not impossible, hardly improbable, in days when the caprice of the strong created accidents, and when cruelty and wrong went for nothing, even with very kindly honest folk. So Torfrida faced the danger, as she would have faced that of a kicking horse, or a flooded ford; and like the nut-brown bride, “She pulled out a little penknife, That was both keen and sharp.” and considered that the beggar-man could wear no armor, and that she wore none either. For if she succeeded in slaying that beggar-man, she might need to slay herself after, to avoid being--according to the fashion of those days--burnt alive. So when the arras was drawn back, and that beggar-man came into the room, instead of shrieking, fainting, hiding, or turning, she made three steps straight toward him, looking him in the face like a wild-cat at bay. Then she threw up her arms; and fell upon his neck. It was Hereward himself. Filthy, ragged: but Hereward. His shirt was brown with gore, and torn with wounds; and through its rents showed more than one hardly healed scar. His hair and beard was all in elf-locks; and one heavy cut across the head had shorn not only hair, but brain-pan, very close. Moreover, any nose, save that of Love, might have required perfume. But Hereward it was; and regardless of all beholders, she lay upon his neck, and never stirred nor spoke. “I call you to witness, ladies,” cried the Queen-Countess, “that I am guiltless. She has given herself to this beggar-man of her own free will. What say you?” And she turned to Torfrida’s mother. Torfrida’s mother only prayed and whimpered. “Countesses and Ladies,” said the Queen-Countess, “there will be two weddings to-morrow. The first will be that of my son Robert and my pretty Lady Gertrude here. The second will be that of my pretty Torfrida and Hereward.” “And the second bride,” said the Countess Gertrude, rising and taking Torfrida in her arms, “will be ten times prettier than the first. There, sir, I have done all you asked of me. Now go and wash yourself.” * * * * * “Hereward,” said Torfrida, a week after, “and did you really never change your shirt all that time?” “Never. I kept my promise.” “But it must have been very nasty.” “Well, I bathed now and then.” “But it must have been very cold.” “I am warm enough now.” “But did you never comb your hair, neither?” “Well, I won’t say that. Travellers find strange bed-fellows. But I had half a mind never to do it at all, just to spite you.” “And what matter would it have been to me?” “O, none. It is only a Danish fashion we have of keeping clean.” “Clean! You were dirty enough when you came home. How silly you were! If you had sent me but one word!” “You would have fancied me beaten, and scolded me all over again. I know your ways now, Torfrida.” CHAPTER XV.