and that was Leofric the Unlucky, godson of the great earl, and
poet-in-ordinary to the band.

The next morning at dawn Hereward mounted his best horse, armed himself
from head to foot, and rode over to Peterborough.

When he came to the abbey-gate, he smote thereon with his lance-but, till
the porter's teeth rattled in his head for fear.

"Let me in!" he shouted. "I am Hereward Leofricsson. I must see my Uncle
Brand."

"O my most gracious lord!" cried the porter, thrusting his head out of the
wicket, "what is this that you have been doing to our Steward?"

"The tithe of what I will do, unless you open the gate!"

"O my lord!" said the porter, as he opened it, "if our Lady and St. Peter
would but have mercy on your fair face, and convert your soul to the fear
of God and man--"

"She would make me as good an old fool as you. Fetch my uncle, the Prior."

The porter obeyed. The son of Earl Leofric was as a young lion among the
sheep in those parts; and few dare say him nay, certainly not the monks of
Peterborough; moreover, the good porter could not help being strangely
fond of Hereward--as was every one whom he did not insult, rob, or kill.

Out came Brand, a noble elder: more fit, from his eye and gait, to be a
knight than a monk. He looked sadly at Hereward.