Eagerly she moved towards him, in bland acceptance of his offer; however, before he could approach her, Ulwin had interposed himself, thundering: "Lay by yon nasty trash! Straight shalt thou wend thee homeward! Spendthrift! Shameless woman! Is this a widow's mourning? Is this modesty? Come home, I say!" He seized her by the arm, and in so doing trod heavily upon her toes. Alftrude's lips contracted, and her eyelids flickered with the pain, and she steadied herself against the gingerbread stall. Richard the Scrob was now beside them: with the first missile to hand, his own money-bag, he struck at the head of Ulwin; and Ulwin reeled and sat down upon the ground with a curse and a roar. "Foul clot of dirt!" said Richard. "I will not have thee deal so with her!" His money-bag was still in his right hand; but why was it no heavier than a strip of pigskin? Where was the reassuring weight to which he had grown used throughout that day? "Look, look!" the ale-wife screamed. "His ill-gotten silver of itself runs from him! Gather, gather, I say--it is his no more! All these French are to be driven forth. Shall he hoard king's coin in our land?" The well-worn bag had burst its seams, and pieces of money strewed the muddy ground. Thralls, boys, and children hurled themselves upon them; they struggled, fought, kicked and clawed up the mud, laughed ecstatically, and rushed about the green, each hugging what he had secured. The crimson faded from Richard's countenance, and he stood white as death and still as a stone. Alftrude hid her face in her hands. "Up, Ulwin!" exclaimed Ednoth. "Let us drive his cattle to Worcester for him--to Hereford--or to hell! Down with the Frenchman! Long life to Earl Godwin!" From under the elm stepped Ingelric the aged thane of Caynham, his beard half-covering his flowing moss-green robe. "No, no, it is unseemly!" he said. "Richard is my friend; he saved me once from debt and loss. If any man befriend me----" "Good folk," stuttered Kenric behind him, "this is more than a game! We are not thieves." But Ednoth and Grim had torn down the hurdles of the pen; the crowd had once more concentrated on that spot, and in another instant, shouting and shrieking, babbling and cheering, they chased and pelted the cattle of Richard the Scrob down Ludford street and out into the open country beyond. Alftrude had flung her arms about Ulwin. She seemed in a swoon: no, she was not fainting; her cheeks were aglow, and her finger-nails were embedded in her brother-in-law's neck. "Perot! Howel!" called Richard. "Come on, come on! To me!" The English, in their zeal for the dispersal of his cattle, had forgotten him. He ran between the outlying houses, followed by his servants, and upon the outskirts of the town they came face to face with the main body of the rabble, and drew their short swords. "Ere ye farther go," said Richard, "ye shall slay me and my men!"