“Lads! old comrades! will you stand by me if I need you? Will you follow Hereward, as hundreds have followed him already, if he will only go before?” “We will, we will.” “I shall be back ere morning. What you have to do, I will tell you then.” “Stop and eat, but for a quarter of an hour.” Then Hereward swore a great oath, by oak and ash and thorn, that he would neither eat bread nor drink water while there was a Norman left in Bourne. “A little ale, then, if no water,” said Azer. Hereward laughed, and rode away, “You will not go single-handed against all those ruffians,” shouted the old man after him. “Saddle, lads, and go with him, some of you, for very shame’s sake.” But when they galloped after Hereward, he sent them back. He did not know yet, he said, what he would do. Better that they should gather their forces, and see what men they could afford him, in case of open battle. And he rode swiftly on. When he came within the lands of Bourne it was dark. “So much the better,” thought Hereward. “I have no wish to see the old place till I have somewhat cleaned it out.” He rode slowly into the long street between the overhanging gables. At the upper end he could see the high garden walls of his mother’s house, and rising over them the great hall, its narrow windows all ablaze with light. With a bitter growl he rode on, trying to recollect a house where he could safely lodge. Martin pointed one out. “Old Viking Surturbrand, the housecarle, did live there, and maybe lives there still.” “We will try.” And Martin knocked at the door. The wicket was opened, but not the door; and through the wicket window a surly voice asked who was there. “Who lives here?” “Perry, son of Surturbrand. Who art thou who askest?” “An honest gentleman and his servant, looking for a night’s lodging.” “This is no place for honest folk.” “As for that, we don’t wish to be more honest than you would have us; but lodging we will pay for, freely and well.” “We want none of your money”; and the wicket was shut. Martin pulled out his axe, and drove the panel in. “What are you doing? We shall rouse the town,” said Hereward. “Let be; these are no French, but honest English, and like one all the better for a little horse-play.” “What didst do that for?” asked the surly voice again. “Were it not for those rascal Frenchmen up above, I would come out and split thy skull for thee.” “If there be Frenchmen up above,” said Martin, in a voice of feigned terror, “take us in for the love of the Virgin and all the saints, or murdered we shall be ere morning light.” “You have no call to stay in the town, man, unless you like.” Hereward rode close to the wicket, and said in a low voice, “I am a nobleman of Flanders, good sir, and a sworn foe to all French. My horse is weary, and cannot make a step forward; and if you be a Christian man, you will take me in and let me go off safe ere morning light.”