“And now you shall taste--as such a gallant knight deserves--the hospitality of Ely.” It was Torfrida who spoke. “My husband’s prisoners are mine; and I, when I find them such _prudhommes_ as you are, have no lighter chains for them than that which a lady’s bower can afford.” Sir Dade was going to make an equally courteous answer, when over and above the shouts and curses of the combatants rose a yell so keen, so dreadful, as made all hurry forward to the rampart. That which Hereward had foreseen was come at last. The bridge, strained more and more by its living burden, and by the falling tide, had parted,--not at the Ely end, where the sliding of the sow took off the pressure,--but at the end nearest the camp. One sideway roll it gave, and then, turning over, engulfed in that foul stream the flower of Norman chivalry; leaving a line--a full quarter of a mile in length--of wretches drowning in the dark water, or, more hideous still, in the bottomless slime of peat and mud. Thousands are said to have perished. Their armor and weapons were found at times, by delvers and dikers, for centuries after; are found at times unto this day, beneath the rich drained cornfields which now fill up that black half-mile, or in the bed of the narrow brook to which the Westwater, robbed of its streams by the Bedford Level, has dwindled down at last. William, they say, struck his tents and departed forthwith, “groaning from deep grief of heart;” and so ended the first battle of Aldreth. CHAPTER XXIX. HOW SIR DADE BROUGHT NEWS FROM ELY. A month after the fight, there came into the camp at Cambridge, riding on a good horse, himself fat and well-liking, none other than Sir Dade. Boisterously he was received, as one alive from the dead; and questioned as to his adventures and sufferings. “Adventures I have had, and strange ones; but for sufferings, instead of fetter-galls, I bring back, as you see, a new suit of clothes; instead of an empty and starved stomach, a surfeit from good victuals and good liquor; and whereas I went into Ely on foot, I came out on a fast hackney.” So into William’s tent he went; and there he told his tale. “So, Dade, my friend?” quoth the Duke, in high good humor, for he loved Dade, “you seem to have been in good company?” “Never in better, Sire, save in your presence. Of the earls and knights in Ely, all I can say is, God’s pity that they are rebels, for more gallant and courteous knights or more perfect warriors never saw I, neither in Normandy nor at Constantinople, among the Varangers themselves.” “Eh! and what are the names of these gallants; for you have used your eyes and ears, of course?” “Edwin and Morcar, the earls,--two fine young lads.” “I know it. Go on”; and a shade passed over William’s brow, as he thought of his own falsehood, and his fair Constance, weeping in vain for the fair bridegroom whom he had promised to her.