“‘These bysshoppes, and these archbysshoppes, Ye shall them bete and binde; The hye sheryff of Nottingham, Hym holde in your mynde.’ “Robyn loved our dere Ladye, For doubt of dedely synne, Wolde he never do company harme That any woman was ynne.” And even so it was with Hereward in the Bruneswald, if the old chroniclers, Leofric especially, are to be believed. And now Torfrida was astonished. She had given way utterly at Ely, from woman’s fear, and woman’s disappointment. All was over. All was lost. What was left, save to die? But--and it was a new and unexpected fact to one of her excitable Southern blood, easily raised, and easily depressed--she discovered that neither her husband, nor Winter, nor Geri, nor Wenoch, nor Ranald of Ramsey, nor even the romancing harping Leofric, thought that all was lost. She argued it with them, not to persuade them into base submission, but to satisfy her own surprise. “But what will you do?” “Live in the greenwood.” “And what then?” “Burn every town which a Frenchman holds, and kill every Frenchman we meet.” “But what plan have you?” “Who wants a plan, as you call it, while he has the green hollies overhead, the dun deer on the lawn, bow in his hand, and sword by his side?” “But what will be the end of it all?” “We shall live till we die.” “But William is master of all England.” “What is that to us? He is not our master.” “But he must be some day. You will grow fewer and fewer. His government will grow stronger and stronger.” “What is that to us? When we are dead, there will be brave yeomen in plenty to take our place. You would not turn traitor?” “I? Never! never! I will live and die with you in your greenwood, as you call it. Only--I did not understand you English.” Torfrida did not. She was discovering the fact, which her nation have more than once discovered since, that the stupid valor of the Englishman never knows when it is beaten; and sometimes, by that self-satisfied ignorance, succeeds in not being beaten after all. So Hereward--if the chronicles speak truth--assembled a formidable force, well-nigh, at last, four hundred men. Winter, Geri, Wenoch, Grogan, one of the Azers of Lincoln, were still with him. Ranald the butler still carried his standard. Of Duti and Outi, the famous brothers, no more is heard. A valiant Matelgar takes their place; Alfric and Sexwold and many another gallant fugitive cast up, like scattered hounds, at the sound of “The Wake’s” war-horn. There were those among them (says Gaimar) who scorned to fight single-handed less than three Normans. As for Hereward, he would fight seven. “Les quatre oscist, les treis fuirent; Naffrez, sanglant, cil s’en partirent En plusurs lius issi avint, K’encontre seit très bien se tuit De seit hommes avait vertu, Un plus hardi ne fu veu.”