Valiant likewise was Abbot Thurstan, for himself. But he had--unlike Bishop Egelwin, whose diocese had been given to a Frenchman--an abbey, monks, and broad lands, whereof he was father and steward. And he must do what was best for the abbey, and also what the monks would let him do. For severe as was the discipline of a minster in time of peace, yet in time of war, when life and death were in question, monks had ere now turned valiant from very fear, like Cato’s mouse, and mutinied: and so might the monks of Ely. And Edwin and Morcar? No man knows what they said or thought; perhaps no man cared much, even in their own days. No hint does any chronicler give of what manner of men they were, or what manner of deeds they did. Fair, gentle, noble, beloved even by William, they are mere names, and nothing more, in history: and it is to be supposed, therefore, that they were nothing more in fact. The race of Leofric and Godiva had worn itself out. One night the confederates had sat late, talking over the future more earnestly than usual. Edwin, usually sad enough, was especially sad that night. Hereward jested with him, tried to cheer him; but he was silent, would not drink, and went away before the rest. The next morning he was gone, and with him half a dozen of his private housecarles. Hereward was terrified. If defections once began, they would be endless. The camp would fall to pieces, and every man among them would be hanged, mutilated, or imprisoned, one by one, helplessly. They must stand or fall together. He went raging to Morcar. Morcar knew naught of it. On the faith and honor of a knight, he knew naught. Only his brother had said to him a day or two before, that he must see his betrothed before he died. “He is gone to William, then? Does he think to win her now,--an outcast and a beggar,--when he was refused her with broad lands and a thousand men at his back? Fool! See that thou play not the fool likewise, nephew, or--” “Or what?” said Morcar, defiantly. “Or thou wilt go, whither Edwin is gone,--to betrayal and ruin.” “Why so? He has been kind enough to Waltheof and Gospatrick, why not to Edwin?” “Because,” laughed Hereward, “he wanted Waltheof, and he does not want you and Edwin. He can keep Mercia quiet without your help. Northumbria and the Fens he cannot without Waltheof’s. They are a rougher set as you go east and north, as you should know already, and must have one of themselves over them to keep them in good humor for a while. When he has used Waltheof as his stalking-horse long enough to build a castle every ten miles, he will throw him away like a worn bowstring, Earl Morcar, nephew mine.” Morcar shook his head. In a week more he was gone likewise. He came to William at Brandon. “You are come in at last, young earl?” said William, sternly. “You are come too late.” “I throw myself on your knightly faith,” said Morcar. But he had come in an angry and unlucky hour.