“But hark thee, Wolf,” said the old man, “and I will tell thee a secret. Forest Will, or Will with the Club, as they call him, passed this way not later than yesterday.” “And who is this Forest Will--knowest thou, father?” asked Wolf, interrupting. “Nay, lad, that is more than I can tell. Some say he is a great man whose life is forfeit to the law; others that he is a captain of forest outlaws. For my part, I know little more of him than do my neighbours; but this little I do know, that he is wondrous familiar with all that is doing, alike at the king’s court and the castles of the barons--ay, even in foreign parts--and he foretells that, ere the harvest is ready for the sickle, there will be war.” “War in England?” said Wolf. “Ay, war in England--and a bloody war to boot; and when swords are being drawn, King John will know better than to keep an Icingla from drawing his sword. Even mine must be scoured up if blows are to be going, and if King Harry’s son has to defend himself against the men who have done all but crush our race to the dust.” And Styr bent his brows and clenched his hands as if eager for the battle, which, with the instinct of an old warrior, he scented from afar. “Well, father,” said Wolf, “I hope it will all turn out for the best; but what if my master took into his head to fight on the other side?” “What if an Icingla took into his head to fight for Norman oppressors against an English king, the heir of the Athelings!” cried Styr, repeating his son’s words. “Why, just this, that he might expect his ancestors to come out of their graves and cry ‘shame’ upon him.” “May the saints forefend!” exclaimed Wolf, almost as much terrified as if the Saxon chiefs alluded to had appeared before him in their shrouds. “But, come what may, I must even take my departure, for the hour grows late, and Dame Isabel is somewhat strict in her rules.” “The better for thee and others that live under the Hleafdian’s roof,” observed Styr.