“Well, what more has the old witch told you?” he said, trying to speak carelessly, though one might see that he longed to hear more.

As we went towards the horses, I told him, therefore, of what had been said of Eadmund and Cnut.  And as he heard he grew thoughtful.

“Now,” he said, slowly and half to himself, “if the shadow of that villain Streone is on Eadmund as on me, I will not strike for myself—­as yet; and Cnut shall win other men’s praise before I give him mine or go to him unsought.”

“Eadmund needs a friend, lord earl,” I said, mindful of Olaf’s errand, yet hardly daring to say more seeing that he had failed.

“If there were no Ethelred—­” said the earl, and stopped.

He said no more then until we were nearly within hearing of Relf.  Then he turned and faced me, taking my hand and staying me.

“I would that Olaf and you were my friends,” he said, “for you both speak out for those whom you love or serve.  See here, Redwald, when you are tired of the ways of Ethelred’s crew, come to me again, and we will plan together.  And tell Olaf the same.  I shall bide quiet, keeping my Sussex against all comers, until I think a time has come.  And then, maybe, the old banner will go forward.  I would have you with me then.”

So it seemed that I had found a friend, though a strange one, and I thanked the earl, and promised him as he wished, for it bound me only to what I thought would surely never come to pass.

After that we went on to Relf, and rode to where we had left the men.  Then the earl left us, making his way to his ships that lay at Bulverhythe, where some were in winter quarters.  The great sea flood had changed the Pevensea haven strangely, and he mistrusted it.

I told Relf all these things, but he cared not much for aught but his free life in the Penhurst woodlands, where he had no foes or fear of foes left, now that the outlaws were done with.

“Well, if there must be fighting under the earl at some time,” he said, “I am glad that you may be with us.”

And he cared to ask no more about it from that day, nor do I think that he ever gave these matters, which were so heavy to me, a thought, being always light hearted.  And now as we rode on silently, and I deemed that his mind was full of bodings, as was mine, he roused me from the memory of what I had seen and heard by saying, with a laugh: 

“Saw you the old dame’s cat?”

“Aye,” I answered carelessly; “a great one, and a friendly beast enough.”

“Was it so?  Then I will warrant that the old witch was in a sorely bad temper,” he said, laughing again.

“What makes you think that?” I asked, not caring if he answered.

“Why, our folk say that the temper of cat and witch are ever opposite.  So when they go to ask aught of the old lady, they wait outside till they see how the cat—­which is, no doubt, her familiar spirit—­behaves.  Then if the beast is wild and savage, they know that its mistress will be in good temper and they may go in.  But if the cat is friendly, they may as well go home, else will they be like to get harder words than they would care to hear.”