A skipping foreigner! If he had dared To talk of chains,-you see these sinewy five, They would have clutched him, till his Frenchman's tongue William (smiles). It trips not as your tongue were native soil, But halts and boggles like a horse half swamp'd In a Dutch marsh. Speak Saxon, noble Harold ! Harold. I do, and thank you, William; tho', by 'r lady, My thanks are elsewhere due. Two shaveling priests By Normandy in arms ;-a word or two They said in Guido's ear; when, quick! begone! To smite the villain's ear. But ever they prayed And so I bore me like a Christian lamb And slew not Guido,-till it please the Saints To bring me to close reach of him again. William. They were my holy chaplain's messengers. Harold. I like not chaplains with more power than mine, I'd strip them of it all. Of poverty, and meekness, and submission. Harold. Hang him,-I like not vows, that whet us more To gain what we abjure. T has often chanced, When labouring with sharp aches from too much wine, I've vowed to abstain; no sooner slips the vow Out of my lips, than-as its words were fire, And made a sandy desert of my throat, Parch'd with hot winds-nothing can quell my thirst I know it well. William. I trust, then, cousin, no vow Of love to me shall make you turn to hate. Harold. Tush! 't is of priests I spoke; for you this heart Beats as of old with love and reverence. William. And mine to you. Ah! they were happy times When we went hawking over all that plain Its name escapes me-where the Druid stones Weigh in such mass upon the flight of Time That he seems moveless since a thousand years. Harold. Salisbury,—'t is a ground to try a hawk. "T might task an eagle's wing. William. And you remember William. She hath oft spoke your name since the report How fiercely she could clasp her little hand, On the false traitor who retained her friend. Harold. Heaven send its blessings on her childish head! A lighter never trampled into rings William. You wrong her, Harold, Two years have worn the fairy circles out And put full woman's weight upon her limbs And yet not changed her heart. E'en now she waits SCENE II. [Exeunt. A fortnight has passed amid the amusements of the Court of Rouen. Adela has been compelled by her Father and Lanfranc to extort a promise from her lover Harold, under threat, if she refuses, of being sent to a Convent. To me to Heaven-and to our Lord the Pope. Adela. What makes the Pope with Harold? Is his voice So powerful it can reach the walls of Rome? Lanfranc. Rome's walls receive the lightest whispered word That e'er left dying lips in farthest Isle, Or loneliest desert. Harold's voice she hears; And your's dear lady, as with eloquent lip, You ask him to make promise of his aid To our great duke. Lanfranc. Who will not serve the church In Prince's court, shall serve her in Nun's cell. Exit Lanfranc. Harold. That man moves ever like a silent cloud, Harold. How sweet are words of praise from honest lips! Harold. I meant them not for praise. Praise is but foam From shallow streams,-the deeps hold still the pearl. Adela. And yet my father doubts what truth there lies Within that noble heart! Harold. So Adela doubts it not. How you have filled this Doubt it who likes, That never leaves the shrine.-We may be rude, In valorous speech and trim built compliment, As scholarly Normans,--but when once we have said Adela. Come in to choke it. Harold. Ade'a. Other thoughts Which be they? Ambition's. Harold. Not so; we can aspire and love unchanged, As eagles seek the sun, yet gaze on earth. Adela. Soar not too high, dear Harold, or poor carth Grows to a speck-a point-then disappears. Say you'll forswear all greatness-but your own— Say when this Edward gains his heavenly crown, Harold. Who calls the circlet woven by England's might Harold (aside). My life Hangs then on William's liking?—As I thought !— Adela. You hesitate-Oh! Harold, give your hand That you will aid my father in his aims. Will you not, Harold ?—he is Adela's father Your's too-dear Harold;-say you'll give your aid! Harold. Why, what are oaths when given in guise like this, With a sharp sword within an inch of my throat? Adela. No, not a sword,—a loving-trusting heart. Harold. Ah! eyes like these shall never plead in vain. Harold. Adela. What boots it swearing? Harold. Aye-that I love you. Will you swear ? That you slay me rather! Harold. That were false oathing. Harold (lifts his hand) Lift your hand, dear Harold— Adela. You will swear to aid my father's claims Adela. All-all! Then I swear. Folding doors open, and display an Altar covered as if for Mass. Choristers- Lanfranc. Heaven and the saints have heard you! If you change Or break the compact firmness of this vow, Earth, heaven and hell shall join to blast your name. A curse shall weigh upon your sword,—your arm Shrivel beneath it, in the day of battle. Angels shall turn their eyes from off your face, 29.-THE BATTLE OF HASTINGS. C. MAC FARLANE. William was hunting in the forest near Rouen, with a great company of knights, esquires, and noble dames and damsels, when a messenger just arrived from England accosted him, and announced the death of the Confessor and the coronation of Harold. The bow dropped out of the hand of the Norman duke, and he stood for a space like one petrified. He then fastened and undid his mantle, speaking no word, and looking so troubled and fierce that none durst speak to him. Then throwing himself into a skiff, he crossed the Seine, and went into his palace, still silent. Striding into the great hall, he threw himself into a chair, and, wrapping his head in his mantle, he bent his body towards the earth. The courtiers gazed upon him with amazement and alarm, and asked one another in whispers what this could mean. "Sirs," said William de Breteuil, the seneschal, "ye will soon know the cause of our lord's anxiety." At a few words spoken by the seneschal, the duke recovered from his reverie, removed the mantle from his face, and listened to one of his barons, who advised him to remind Harold of the oaths he had sworn, and demand from him the immediate surrender of the Confessor's crown. Harold replied, that the crown of England was not his to give away. When William the Norman prepared to invade England (which he did forthwith), he had reached the mature age of forty-two. He called to his aid not only his subjects of Normandy, but men from Maine and Anjou, from Poictou and Brittany, from the country of the French king and from Flanders, from Aquitaine and from Burgundy, from Piedmont beyond the Alps, and from the German countries beyond the river Rhine. The idle adventurers of one-half of Europe flocked to his standard. Some of these men demanded regular pay in money, others nothing but a passage across the Channel, and all the booty they might make; some of the chiefs demanded territory in England, while others simply bargained to have a rich English wife allotted to them. William sold beforehand a bishopric in England for a ship and twenty men-at-arms. The pope gave the Conqueror a holy licence to invade England, upon condition that the Norman duke should hold his conquest as a fief of the church; and, together with a bull, a consecrated banner, and a ring of great price, containing one of the hairs of St. Peter, were sent from Rome into Normandy. So formidable an armament had not been collected in Western Europe for many centuries. The total number of vessels amounted to about three thousand, of which six hundred or seven hundred were of a superior order. When the expedition set sail, William led the van in a vessel which had been presented to him for the occasion by his wife Matilda: the vanes of the ship were gilded, the sails were of different bright colours, the three lions--the arms of Normandy-were painted in divers places, and the sculptured figure-head was a child with a bent bow, the arrow sceming ready to fly against the hostile and perjured land of England. The consecrated banner sent from Rome floated at the main-top-mast. This ship sailed faster than all the rest, and in the course of the night it left the whole flect far astern. Early in the morning the duke ordered a sailor to the mast-head to see if the other ships were coming up, "I can see nothing but the sea and sky," said the mariner; and thereupon they lay-to. To keep the crew and the soldiers on board in good heart, William ordered them a sumptuous breakfast, with warm wine strongly spiced. After this refection the mariner was again sent aloft, and this time he said he could make out four vessels in the distance; but mounting a third time, he shouted out with a merry voice, "Now I see a forest of masts and sails." Within a few hours the re-united Norman fleet came to anchor or the Sussex coast. At that particular point the coast was flat, and the country behind it marshy and unpicturesque; but a little to the left stood the noble Roman walls |