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A flood of sorrow passed through Hereward's heart. He kept it down, and rising once more, harp in hand, "Hereward, king, hight I, Holy Leofric my father, In Westminster wiser None walked with King Edward. High minsters he builded, Pale monks he maintained. Dead is he, a bed-death, A leech-death, a priest-death, A straw-death, a cow's death. Such doom I desire not.
I was an early Norseman, and I would escape the prosaic bed-death, since, for those dying thus, Held waited in her chill prison-house below, with hunger her dish, starvation her knife, care her bed, and anguish her curtains. To survive for easy death, long deferred, perhaps, I should have my empty dish and bed of care at once.
'A bed-death, a priest death, A straw death, a cow death, Such death likes not me! Nor likes it me either, Hereward Leofricsson." So the Danes sailed away: but Sigtryg Ranaldsson and his five ships remained. Hereward went to the minster tower, and watched the Ouse flashing with countless oars northward toward Southrey Fen.
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