He heard the dull crash of the steel; he felt the sword jammed tight. He shut his eyes for an instant, fearing lest, as in dreams, his blow had come to naught; lest his sword had turned aside, or melted like water in his hand, and the next moment would find him crushed to earth, blinded and stunned. Something tugged at his sword. He opened his eyes, and saw the huge carcass bend, reel, roll slowly over to one side dead, tearing out of his hand the sword, which was firmly fixed into the skull.
Hereward stood awhile staring at the beast like a man astonished at what he himself had done. He had had his first adventure, and he had conquered. He was now a champion in his own right,—a hero of the heroes,—one who might take rank, if he went on, beside Beowulf, Frotho, Ragnar Lodbrog, or Harald Hardraade. He had done this deed. What was there after this which he might not do? And he stood there in the fulness of his pride, defiant of earth and heaven, while in his heart arose the thought of that old Viking who cried, in the pride of his godlessness: “I never on earth met him whom I feared, and why should I fear Him in heaven? If I met Odin, I would fight with Odin. If Odin were the stronger, he would slay me; if I were the stronger, I would slay him.” And there he stood, staring, and dreaming over renown to come,—a true pattern of the half-savage hero of those rough times, capable of all vices except cowardice, and capable, too, of all virtues save humility.
“Do you not see,” said Martin Lightfoot’s voice, close by, “that there is a fair lady trying to thank you, while you are so rude or so proud that you will not vouchsafe her one look?”
It was true. Little Alftruda had been clinging to him for five minutes past. He took the child up in his arms and kissed her with pure kisses, which for a moment softened his hard heart; then, setting her down, he turned to Martin.
“I have done it, Martin.”
“Yes, you have done it; I spied you. What will the old folks at home say to this?”
“What care I?”
Martin Lightfoot shook his head, and drew out his knife.
“What is that for?” said Hereward.
“When the master kills the game, the knave can but skin it. We may sleep warm under this fur in many a cold night by sea and moor.”
“Nay,” said Hereward, laughing; “when the master kills the game he must first carry it home. Let us take him and set him up against the bower door there, to astonish the brave knights inside.” And stooping down, he attempted to lift the huge carcass; but in vain. At last, with Martin’s help, he got it fairly on his shoulders, and the two dragged their burden to the bower and dashed it against the door, shouting with all their might to those within to open it.
Windows, it must be remembered, were in those days so few and far between that the folks inside had remained quite unaware of what was going on without.
The door was opened cautiously enough; and out looked, to the shame of knighthood, be it said, two or three knights who had taken shelter in the bower with the ladies. Whatever they were going to say the ladies forestalled, for, rushing out across the prostrate bear, they overwhelmed Hereward with praises, thanks, and, after the straightforward custom of those days, with substantial kisses.
“You must be knighted at once,” cried they. “You have knighted yourself by that single blow.”
“A pity, then,” said one of the knights to the others, “that he had not given that accolade to himself, instead of to the bear.”
“Unless some means are found,” said another, “of taking down this boy’s conceit, life will soon be not worth having here.”
“Either he must take ship,” said a third, “and look for adventures elsewhere, or I must.”
Martin Lightfoot heard those words; and knowing that envy and hatred, like all other vices in those rough-hewn times, were apt to take very startling and unmistakeable shapes, kept his eye accordingly on those three knights.
“He must be knighted,—he shall be knighted, as soon as Sir Gilbert comes home,” said all the ladies in chorus.
“I should be sorry to think,” said Hereward, with the blundering mock humility of a self-conceited boy, “that I had done anything worthy of such an honor. I hope to win my spurs by greater feats than these.”
A burst of laughter from the knights and gentlemen followed.
“How loud the young bantam crows after his first little scuffle!”
“Hark to him! What will he do next? Eat a dragon? Fly to the moon? Marry the Sophy of Egypt’s daughter?”
This last touched Hereward to the quick, for it was just what he thought of doing; and his blood, heated enough already, beat quicker, as some one cried, with the evident intent of picking a quarrel:
“That was meant for us. If the man who killed the bear has not earned knighthood, what must we be, who have not killed him? You understand his meaning, gentlemen,—don’t forget it!”
Hereward looked down, and setting his foot on the bear’s head, wrenched out of it the sword which he had left till now, with pardonable pride, fast set in the skull.
Martin Lightfoot, for his part, drew stealthily from his bosom the little magic axe, keeping his eye on the brain-pan of the last speaker.
The lady of the house cried “Shame!” and ordered the knights away with haughty words and gestures, which, because they were so well deserved, only made the quarrel more deadly.
Then she commanded Hereward to sheathe his sword.
He did so; and turning to the knights, said with all courtesy: “You mistake me, sirs. You were where brave knights should be, within the beleaguered fortress, defending the ladies. Had you remained outside, and been eaten by the bear, what must have befallen them, had he burst open the door? As for this little lass, whom you left outside, she is too young to requite knight’s prowess by lady’s love; and therefore beneath your attention, and only fit for the care of a boy like me.” And taking up Alftruda in his arms, he carried her in and disappeared.
Who now but Hereward was in all men’s mouths? The minstrels made ballads on him; the lasses sang his praises (says the chronicler) as they danced upon the green. Gilbert’s lady would need give him the seat, and all the honors, of a belted knight, though knight he was none. And daily and weekly the valiant lad grew and hardened into a valiant man, and a courteous one withal, giving no offence himself, and not over-ready to take offence at other men.
The knights were civil enough to him, the ladies more than civil; he hunted, he wrestled, he tilted; he was promised a chance of fighting for glory, as soon as a Highland chief should declare war against Gilbert, or drive off his cattle,—an event which (and small blame to the Highland chiefs) happened every six months.
No one was so well content with himself as Hereward; and therefore he fancied that the world must be equally content with him, and he was much disconcerted when Martin drew him aside one day, and whispered: “If I were my lord, I should wear a mail shirt under my coat to-morrow out hunting.”
“What?”
“The arrow that can go through a deer’s bladebone can go through a man’s.”
“Who should harm me?”
“Any man of the dozen who eat at the same table.”
“What have I done to them? If I had my laugh at them, they had their laugh at me; and we are quits.”
“There is another score, my lord, which you have forgotten, and that is all on your side.”
“Eh?”
“You killed the bear. Do you expect them to forgive you that, till they have repaid you with interest?”
“Pish!”
“You do not want for wit, my lord. Use it, and think. What right has a little boy like you to come here, killing bears which grown men cannot kill? What can you expect but just punishment for your insolence,—say, a lance between your shoulders