Taillebois dragged William back, regardless of curses and prayers from his soldiery; and they reached the shore just in time to see between them and the water a long black, smouldering, writhing line; the morass to right and left, which had been a minute before deep reed, an open smutty pool, dotted with boats full of shrieking and cursing men; and at the causeway end, the tower with the flame climbing up its posts, and the witch of Brandon throwing herself desperately from the top, and falling dead upon the embers, a motionless heap of rags. “Fool that thou art! Fool that I was!” cried the great king, as he rolled off his horse at his tent door, cursing with rage and pain. But he was not yet beaten. The lion in William having been defeated, the fox had his day. What force could not accomplish, craft and cunning might. No longer did he attempt to capture the island. He would starve it into submission, and meanwhile test the temper of the timorous monks who trembled in their cells. With lavish promises for their own safety and the possession of their abbey and its lands, they were beguiled, and at length they revealed the secret paths that led to the isle. One by one his friends deserted him, until at length the day arrived when Hereward too was forced to come in to the king—the last Englishman in the land to submit to the Norman. William received him gladly, for his heart ever warmed to a brave foe. What the actual end of Hereward was we do not know, but we can readily believe that he died fighting, overborne by the number of his treacherous foes, and in his dying struggle doing miracles of valour. So he fades out of our pageant, but his memory will ever be dear to all Britons who love the gallant and brave, and deem the pure patriot the glory of his land. [Illustration: =HEREWARD YIELDING TO WILLIAM.= (_From the drawing by H. C. Selous. By permission of the Art Union of London._)] [Illustration] Chapter VI. ENGLAND UNDER THE NORMANS. WILLIAM THE RED. “_There is no peace, saith the Lord, unto the wicked._” LOOK upon the scene which now unfolds itself. You are gazing into the depths of that Hampshire forest which the Conqueror set apart for his kingly sport. It is cursed to his line by reason of the cruelties which he wreaked upon the forest dwellers when he burnt their roof-trees over their heads, and scattered them afar, to make a solitude for his deer. Two scions of his house have already perished in its glades.