“From Flanders?” And the man turned and seemed to consult those within. At length the door was slowly opened, and Perry appeared, his double axe over his shoulder. “If you be from Flanders, come in for mercy; but be quick, ere those Frenchmen get wind of you.” Hereward went in. Five or six men were standing round the long table, upon which they had just laid down their double axes and javelins. More than one countenance Hereward recognized at once. Over the peat-fire in the chimney-corner sat a very old man, his hands upon his knees, as he warmed his bare feet at the embers. He started up at the noise, and Hereward saw at once that it was old Surturbrand, and that he was blind. “Who is it? Is Hereward come?” asked he, with the dull, dreamy voice of age. “Not Hereward, father,” said some one, “but a knight from Flanders.” The old man dropped his head upon his breast again with a querulous whine, while Hereward’s heart beat high at hearing his own name. At all events he was among friends; and approaching the table he unbuckled his sword and laid it down among the other weapons. “At least,” said he, “I shall have no need of thee as long as I am here among honest men.” “What shall I do with my master’s horse?” asked Martin. “He can’t stand in the street to be stolen by drunken French horseboys.” “Bring him in at the front door, and out at the back,” said Perry. “Fine times these, when a man dare not open his own yard-gate.” “You seem to be all besieged here,” said Hereward. “How is this?” “Besieged we are,” said the man; and then, partly to turn the subject off, “Will it please you to eat, noble sir?” Hereward ate and drank: while his hosts eyed him, not without some lingering suspicion, but still with admiration and some respect. His splendid armor and weapons, as well as the golden locks which fell far below his shoulders, and conveniently hid a face which he did not wish yet to have recognized, showed him to be a man of the highest rank; while the palm of his small hand, as hard and bony as any woodman’s, proclaimed him to be no novice of a fighting man. The strong Flemish accent which both he and Martin Lightfoot had assumed prevented the honest Englishmen from piercing his disguise. They watched him, while he in turn watched them, struck by their uneasy looks and sullen silence. “We are a dull company,” said he after a while, courteously enough. “We used to be told in Flanders that there were none such stout drinkers and none such jolly singers as you gallant men of the Danelagh here.” “Dull times make dull company,” said one, “and no offence to you, Sir Knight.” “Are you such a stranger,” asked Perry, “that you do not know what has happened in this town during the last three days?” “No good, I will warrant, if you have Frenchmen in it.” “Why was not Hereward here?” wailed the old man in the corner. “It never would have happened if he had been in the town.” “What?” asked Hereward, trying to command himself.