A curt and fierce answer came back, not from Hereward, but from Torfrida herself,--that William of Normandy was no knight himself, or he would not offer a knight his life, on condition of burning his lady. William swore horribly. “What is all this about?” They told him--as much as they chose to tell him. He was very wroth. “Who was Ivo Taillebois, to add to his message? He had said that Torfrida should not burn.” Taillebois was stout; for he had won the secretary over to his side meanwhile. He had said nothing about burning. He had merely supplied an oversight of the king’s. The woman, as the secretary knew, could not, with all deference to his Majesty, be included in an amnesty. She was liable to ecclesiastical censure, and the ecclesiastical courts. William might exercise his influence on them in all lawful ways, and more, remit her sentence, even so far as to pardon her entirely, if his merciful temper should so incline him. But meanwhile, what better could he, Ivo, have done, than to remind the monks of Ely that she was a sorceress; that she had committed grave crimes, and was liable to punishment herself, and they to punishment also, as her shelterers and accomplices? What he wanted was to bring over the monks; and he believed that message had been a good stroke toward that. As for Hereward, the king need not think of him. He never would come in alive. He had sworn an oath, and he would keep it. And so the matter ended. CHAPTER XXXIII. HOW THE MONKS OF ELY DID AFTER THEIR KIND. William’s bolt, or rather inextinguishable Greek fire, could not have fallen into Ely at a more propitious moment. Hereward was away, with a large body of men, and many ships, foraging in the northeastern fens. He might not be back for a week. Abbot Thurstan--for what cause is not said--had lost heart a little while before, and fled to “Angerhale, taking with him the ornaments and treasure of the church.” Hereward had discovered his flight with deadly fear: but provisions he must have, and forth he must go, leaving Ely in charge of half a dozen independent English gentlemen, each of whom would needs have his own way, just because it was his own. Only Torfrida he took, and put her hand into the hand of Ranald Sigtrygsson, and said, “Thou true comrade and perfect knight, as I did by thy wife, do thou by mine, if aught befall.” And Ranald swore first by the white Christ, and then by the head of Sleipnir, Odin’s horse, that he would stand by Torfrida till the last; and then, if need was, slay her. “You will not need, King Ranald. I can slay myself,” said she, as she took the Ost-Dane’s hard, honest hand. And Hereward went, seemingly by Mepal or Sutton. Then came the message; and all men in Ely knew it.