“Sir, he is not a man, but a witch or a devil. He asked us what we did there. One of our men laughed at his long neck and legs, and called him heron. ‘Heron I am,’ says he, ‘and strike like a heron, right at the eyes’; and with that he cuts the man over the face with his axe, and laid him dead, and then another, and another.’ “Till you all ran away, villains!” “We gave back a step,--no more. And he freed one of those four, and he again the rest; and then they all set on us, and went to hang us in their own stead.” “When there were ten of you, I thought?” “Sir, as we told you, he is no mortal man, but a fiend.” “Beasts, fools! Well, I have hanged this one, at least!” growled Ivo, and then rode sullenly on. “Who is this fellow?” cried he to the trembling English. “Wulfric Raher, Wulfric the Heron, of Wrokesham in Norfolk.” “Aha! And I hold a manor of his,” said Ivo to himself. “Look you, villains, this fellow is in league with you.” A burst of abject denial followed. “Since the French,--since Sir Frederick, as they call him, drove him out of his Wrokesham lands, he wanders the country, as you see: to-day here, but Heaven only knows where he will be to-morrow.” “And finds, of course, a friend everywhere. Now march!” And a string of threats and curses followed. It was hard to see why Wulfric should not have found friends; as he was simply a small holder, or squire, driven out of house and land, and turned adrift on the wide world, for the offence of having fought in Harold’s army at the battle of Hastings. But to give him food or shelter was, in Norman eyes, an act of rebellion against the rightful King William; and Ivo rode on, boiling over with righteous indignation, along the narrow drove which led toward Deeping. A pretty lass came along the drove, driving a few sheep before her, and spinning as she walked. “Whose lass are you?” shouted Ivo. “The Abbot of Crowland’s, please your lordship,” said she, trembling. “Much too pretty to belong to monks. Chuck her up behind you, one of you.” The shrieking and struggling girl was mounted behind a horseman and bound, and Ivo rode on. A woman ran out of a turf-hut on the drove side, attracted by the girl’s cries. It was her mother. “My lass! Give me my lass, for the love of St. Mary and all saints!” and she clung to Ivo’s bridle. He struck her down, and rode on over her. A man cutting sedges in a punt in the lode alongside looked up at the girl’s shrieks, and leapt on shore, scythe in hand. “Father! father!” cried she. “I’ll rid thee, lass, or die for it,” said he, as he sprang up the drove-dike and swept right and left at the horses’ legs. The men recoiled. One horse went down, lamed for life; another staggered backwards into the further lode, and was drowned. But an arrow went through the brave serf’s heart, and Ivo rode on, cursing more bitterly than ever, and comforted himself by flying his hawks at a covey of patridges.