Chapter V.

THE COMING OF THE NORMANS.

HAROLD OF ENGLAND AND WILLIAM OF NORMANDY.

“_Yet shall a third both these and thine subdue;_ _There shall a lion from the sea-bord wood_ _Of Neustria come roring, with a crew_ _Of hungry whelpes._”

NOW a remarkable scene diversifies our pageant. You see before you the great hall of the Norman castle of Bayeux. Baron, knight, bishop, and priest fill up the background, and you perceive at once that an important crisis has arrived. Your eye instantly fastens on the two chief actors in the scene; and you do well to study them closely, for rarely in the history of our land have two such notable men stood face to face.

The one, albeit he betrays some signs of anxiety, claims, at first sight, your admiration and sympathy. He is tall and comely, with the blue eyes and the golden beard and flowing locks of the Saxon. You picture him as a bluff, good-humoured Englishman, proud of his strength of arm, his prowess in the chase, his skill in warfare, and his sense of fair play. You can readily believe him to be winning and courteous in public life, calm and cool in the hour of danger, easy and sociable when the fight is over. He is Harold of England, the most gifted of the sons of old Earl Godwin, that dogged earl who, in his lifetime, was the champion of Englishmen at the court of the feeble but pious King Edward, now reigning in England. Edward loves the Norman and despises the Englishman, and his court swarms with aliens, on whom he lavishes land and wealth. Men say he has bequeathed his sceptre to a Norman, but his subjects will have none of it. Yonder fair-haired Englishman is their pride and choice, and him they will seat on the throne when Edward is dead. King Edward is now fast sinking into his grave, his last hours disquieted by the appearance of a comet which the priests assure him betokens ruin for his country.

Now turn your attention to the other chief actor in the scene. You know at a glance that he is a great man, and that he is destined to make history. He is a giant in stature; no man living but he can bend his mighty bow. Rough and hard has been his upbringing, and rough and hard is his temper. He, too, is of Viking blood. His ancestor was that fierce outlaw Rollo, so long of leg and so heavy of frame that no horse could carry him. This fierce and crafty Viking had wrested a province from the imbecile King of France, on condition of doing homage to the poor simpleton. But Rollo would bow the knee to none save the rugged gods of his fierce Northern creed, nor would any of his chieftains so demean themselves. A common soldier was Rollo’s deputy, and even he disdained to bow, but seized the foot of the king and in bringing it to his mouth jerked the poor monarch off his throne!

Rollo lives again in William, this mighty Norman duke at whom you are now gazing. His father’s nature is well set forth in the nickname which his followers gave him—Robert the Devil. William’s mother was a tanner’s daughter, and his haughty nobles once sneered at his base origin. They dare not do so now, for they know full well the weight of his mighty arm. As a boy he was heir to the most turbulent dukedom in Europe, but while in his teens he curbed the wild lawlessness of the barons and put a hook in their proud nostrils. Full well they remember the fate of those townsmen of Alençon who insulted his mother’s memory by hanging hides from their walls as a fitting welcome to “the tanner.” They will not soon forget how, in his wrath, he lopped off the feet and hands of his prisoners, and bade his slingers hurl the ghastly trophies into the town. Watchful, patient, cunning, ruthless, yet withal clear and sure of vision, he stands before you as by far the greatest warrior and statesman of his time.

What manner of man this masterful Norman duke is, you may learn from the story of his wooing. He did not seek his wife with smiles and honeyed words, nor did he deign to display his best graces to win her heart. That is not his way. When Matilda, daughter of the Earl of Flanders, rejected his suit, both on account of his birth and because she loved another, he was not daunted—not he. He waited for her in the streets of Bruges, and forthwith rolled her in the dirt and soundly cuffed her ears. Strange to say, his new mode of wooing was successful. Matilda went home, changed her attire, put ointment on her bruises, and when next her lover presented himself declared that “the marriage pleased her well.”

And now his mind is bent on quite another conquest, but the same masterful method will prevail. He has visited England. He has embraced the old king, who owes a debt of gratitude to Normandy; for was it not in that civilized land that he found shelter, succour, and education when Sweyn the Dane drove him as a callow boy into exile? William sees with his own eyes that the poor old king is not long for this world; and he notes with satisfaction that Normans surround his throne, tend him at table, and administer to him the rites of the Church. William has willing allies now, and he will have helpers, he thinks, when the time comes. So he returns to Normandy, and announces that Edward has named him as successor to the English throne.

But how come William and Harold, these rivals for a throne, to be under the same roof? Sooth to tell, the one is the captive of the other. Harold’s bonds are very real, though not apparent. Some months ago he was cruising in the Channel, when an unlucky storm drove him on the Norman shore. The neighbouring baron seized him, and rejoiced at the prospect of a heavy ransom; but William claimed him, and welcomed him to his court with a show of cordiality. Together they have waged war on the Bretons, and Harold has done prodigies of valour. They have shared the same tent and have fed at the same table. To the outward eye they are brothers.

But why does Harold’s countenance betray signs of anxiety? William has deemed the hour ripe for displaying the iron hand beneath the velvet glove. He now declares that Edward has bequeathed him the English crown, and bids Harold swear to assist him in securing it. The Englishman knows not what to do. An oath will be demanded, and this he must give, or death or life-long imprisonment will be his fate. Yet he knows full well that once in England he will forswear the oath, and ascend the throne which his countrymen deem him worthy to fill. The oath, he argues, can be of none effect, for he _must_ swear or perish.

His decision is made. A crucifix lies on a cloth of gold, and Harold is bidden to place his hand on it and swear to aid his captor to obtain the kingdom of England after the death of Edward. Reluctantly he does so, and then the cloth of gold is removed, and beneath it are discovered all the sacred relics which William has collected from a score of churches. Harold grows pale at the sight; his strong limbs tremble, and his heart fails him. He has sworn to befriend the Norman duke by an oath of the most terrible solemnity. Even the Normans standing by cry, “God help him.”

THE EVE OF THE INVASION.

Homeward speeds Harold, and as he crosses the Channel his terror gives way to wrath at the knavery practised upon him. Speedily he banishes the hateful memory of his enforced oath; he must be up and doing, for the aged king lies on his deathbed. With his dying breath Edward declares that Harold is the most worthy to reign, and the chiefs of the land concur in his choice. Edward is buried with the utmost solemnity in his great new church at Westminster, where you may see his shrine to this day. Then, amidst the loud shouts of the English nobles who throng the minster, Harold is elected king. Forthwith he takes up the reins of office, and his subjects rejoice daily in his wisdom, justice, and unsparing devotion to the good of his country.

But what of William, the rejected candidate for the throne? He is in his park near Rouen when the trembling messenger breaks the news. His face grows clouded; he strings and unstrings his bow. Suddenly he hands it to an attendant, and hurries to his castle. In the great hall he strides to and fro, sits down and rises again, unable to remain still in any place, none daring to approach him lest the tempest of his rage should burst on them. At length a privileged baron addresses the brooding duke. “Sire,” says he, “why should you conceal from us your news? It is commonly reported that the King of England is dead, and that Harold, breaking faith with you, has seized the kingdom.” “They say true,” replies the duke; “my grief and anger are caused by Edward’s death and Harold’s wrong.” “Sire,” returns the courtier, “for Edward’s death there is no remedy, but for Harold’s wrong there is. Strike boldly; well begun is half done.”

At once William made his resolve, and began to battle with the myriad difficulties which beset him. He interviewed his barons, and wrung from them their reluctant consent to the enterprise and their grudging promises of aid, and persuaded the Pope to send him a consecrated banner and a bull recognizing him King of England. Then far and wide he published his proclamation of war, promising liberal pay and the plunder of England to all who would strike in his cause. Forthwith from every part of France knights, spearmen, and cross-bowmen flocked to him. The bulk of them were hardy adventurers, actuated by every kind of greed and covetousness. During the autumn of 1065 and the spring of the following year Normandy was as busy as a hive of bees. The woodmen felled the forests; the shipwrights wrought at the seaports; every armourer’s shop rang with the blows of artisans fashioning coats of mail, spears, and swords. Speedily all was ready for the invasion of England.

Meanwhile, what was happening in that threatened land? While the great armament of the Norman was wind-bound in port, a vast Viking host under Harold Hardrada, King of Norway, and Tostig, the English king’s brother, had doubled Spurn Head, and was sailing up the Humber and into the Ouse, bound for York. Why, you ask, should Harold’s own brother take arms against him when William of Normandy was arraying a mighty host for his undoing? Tostig had been Earl of Northumbria, and had ruled his earldom with harshness and injustice. He had forced peace on a land of feuds and outrages by taking life and by maiming limb. Loud had been the outcry against him, and Tostig had been driven from Northumbria by his incensed subjects. Harold had supported the claim of a rival; and now Tostig, at the instigation of his brother-in-law, Duke William, had persuaded the Norse king to join him in a descent upon North England. Harold, whom he had not forgiven, was to be taken between two fires, and victory seemed sure.

Harold had mustered his forces on the southern shore, and during the summer lay in wait for the coming of the Norman. Summer passed, and autumn arrived when the news reached him that the Vikings were in the Ouse. Believing that William would not sail until the spring, Harold set out for York to smite the Northern host before the Norman was ready to attack. With wonderful speed his troops marched northward, and York was reached on the fourth day after his departure from London.

The Norsemen were taken by surprise. It was inconceivable that Harold could be nigh, and so they advanced to York, which had promised surrender, leaving their coats of mail on board their ships in the river. As they marched towards the gates, which were to be flung wide at their approach, they beheld a cloud of dust and the glitter of arms in the distance. “Who are these advancing towards us?” asked Hardrada. “Only Englishmen craving pardon and beseeching friendship,” answered Tostig; but the words had scarcely been uttered before the dust-cloud resolved itself into an army, headed by King Harold himself. “The enemy!—the enemy!” muttered the Norwegians. They formed in line of battle, ready for the fray.

Harold feared not the issue, but he was loath to shed his brother’s blood, and sent forward a messenger to offer Tostig his old earldom—one-third of the kingdom—if he would yield. “And what,” asked Tostig, “will he give my faithful ally, the King of Norway?” “He,” replied the English messenger, “shall have seven feet of ground for a grave, or, as he is a very tall man, perhaps a little more.” Tostig bade the messenger depart, and battle was joined.

Hardly had the fray begun before Hardrada fell with a random arrow in his throat. The fury of the English onset could not be resisted. The Norwegians fell back and crossed the Derwent by Stamford Bridge, and the English followed. For a time a gigantic Norseman, like Horatius of old, “kept the bridge;” but he was slain at last, and the English swarmed after the retreating foe. At nightfall the Norsemen were overthrown, the raven banner of the Vikings was taken, and Tostig and most of his captains were dead. Harold had triumphed. His foes came in three hundred ships; they fled in twenty-four.

THE BATTLE OF HASTINGS.

“_Norman saw on English oak,_ _On English neck a Norman yoke,_ _Norman spoon in English dish,_ _And England ruled as Normans wish;_ _Blithe world in England never will be more,_ _Till England’s rid of all the four._”

And now, in mimic strife, let that great battle which gave England for the last time to foreign foes be fought again. The first act of the drama which we are about to witness takes place on the Sussex shore near Pevensey, on the spot where Roman and Saxon alike landed when they too coveted the possession of our isle.

It is the twenty-ninth day of September, in the year of grace 1066. The wind that is even now fluttering the victorious banners of Harold at York is wafting to our coast an even more terrible foe. You see the vast armada of the Norman approaching the beach. Amidst the crowd of vessels which cover the sea you discern a ship with the prow fashioned like a brazen child loosing an arrow from a bended bow. That ship bears Duke William and his fortunes. Speedily the vessels run aground, planks are thrust ashore, and the work of landing begins.

“Out archers!” is the cry, and the shaven and shorn cross-bowmen in their short habits spring ashore and form up on the beach. They scour the neighbourhood, but no armed foe is in sight. Now the knights, clad in hauberk, helmet, and shining cuirass, with their shields slung round their necks, step ashore, and their bustling squires, with many a tug and strain and muttered curse, lead their high-mettled chargers down the creaking gangways. In a trice the knights are mounted, their swords girded on, and their lances in hand. You see their glittering ranks form and wheel upon the shore.

Here come the carpenters, with their axes, planes, and adzes, seeking a suitable spot for the erection of a castle, which was completely fashioned in Normandy, and now only needs fitting together. Great frames are carried ashore, and like magic a wooden fortress is deftly reared on the strand. Ere set of sun the stores are landed and safely bestowed within its walls. The guards are set, and the evening meal is served.

Last of all to tread the soil of the land that is soon to be his comes Duke William. As he steps ashore he stumbles, and falls upon his face. A cry of consternation runs through the superstitious host. “God preserve us! this is a bad sign.”—“Nay,” he shouts lustily, and with that readiness of retort which never fails him; “see, my lords, I have taken possession of England with both my hands! It is now mine, and what is mine is yours.”

At dawn he marches along the seashore to Hastings, where other wooden castles are erected, and every precaution is taken against surprise. The foragers are busy in every neighbouring village, and as they appear the unarmed English flee, driving their cattle before them to secret places of safety. Mounted scouts push far into the country, and fall back on the main body as the English army draws near.

Now the scene changes, and you see Harold’s footmen hurrying forward in the vain hope of smiting the Norman ere he has made good his landing. But the surprise of Stamford Bridge is not to be repeated, and Harold halts seven miles from Hastings and sends forward his spies. Speedily they return with the astonishing news that there are more priests in William’s camp than fighting-men. They are mistaken; they do not know the Norman custom of shaving the beard and cropping the poll. Harold smiles at their report. “Those whom you have seen in such numbers,” says he, “are not priests but good soldiers, who will make us feel what they are.” Now a council of war is held, and several of his captains, with rare good sense, advise the English king to avoid a battle and retreat towards London, leaving a desert behind him. “No,” says the chivalrous Harold. “Ravage the country which has been committed to my care! Never! I will try the chances of battle with the few men I have, and trust to their courage and the goodness of my cause.”

But here comes a Norman monk, big with a message from his duke, bidding Harold do one of three things—resign his kingdom in favour of William, yield it to the Pope for his award, or determine the issue by single combat. “Tell your master,” says Harold abruptly, “I will not resign my title, I will not refer it to the Pope, nor will I accept the single combat.” Again William tempts him by the promise of all the land north of the Humber; but Harold is proof against the bribe, and his captains swear a unanimous oath to make neither peace, truce, nor treaty with the invader, but to drive away the Norman, or perish in the attempt.

Now the scene shifts once more. On a spur of the South Downs, where Battle Abbey now stands, you see the embattled array of the English. The hill of Senlac, on which they have posted themselves, slopes steeply in front, less steeply on the right, and gently on the left. On the summit of the hill the host of the English is thickly gathered behind a rough trench and a stockade. There is marshy ground on the right, but the left is the weakest part of the position, and here are mustered Harold’s stout hus-carles, doughty warriors in full armour, wielding huge axes. Here, too, are the banners of the king—the Golden Dragon of Wessex and the Fighting Man. The rest of the ground is occupied by the half-armed rustics who have flocked to Harold, and are bent on striking a good blow against the invader.

Out from the Norman host spurs the minstrel Taillefer, singing the song of Roland, and Oliver, and the peers who died at Roncesvalles. As he sings he tosses his sword into the air and juggles with it famously. Then he puts his horse to the gallop, and strikes his lance through an English breast. He smites another with his sword, shouting challenges to the foe. The English close round him, and the first Norman has fallen on the fatal field.

A shower of arrows from the archers begins the fray, and then the footmen and the Norman knights, to the loud braying of horns, charge up the slopes, crying, “God be our help!” The charge breaks vainly on the stockade and shield-wall, behind which the English ply axe and javelin with fierce shouts of “Out! out!” Back go the footmen and back go the knights, leaving dead and wounded before that fatal barrier. Again and again the duke rallies them; the fury of fight surges in his veins, and with headlong valour he spurs up the slopes to the fierce attack. No breach can be made in that wall. His Bretons, entangled in the marshy ground, break into disorder, and panic seizes his army as the cry goes round that the duke is slain. William bars the way and checks the flight of the fugitives with savage blows. He tears off his helmet. “I am alive,” he shouts, “and by God’s will I will conquer yet.”

Maddened by another repulse, he spurs right into the thick of the fight. His horse goes down beneath him, but his terrible mace circles in the air, and his assailants are felled, never to rise again. Again he mounts, again he is unhorsed, and a blow of his hand hurls to the ground an unmannerly rider who will not lend him a steed. William’s terrible onslaughts have dispelled the panic, but the issue of the battle still hangs in the balance.

It is three in the afternoon, and the English shield-wall is yet unbroken. Frontal attacks having failed, William will now try what the cunning of strategy can accomplish. Hitherto his archers have done but little mischief. With their great shields the English ward off the arrows that beat upon them like hail. “Shoot upwards,” he commands, “that your arrows may fall on their heads.” The archers obey, and with shields raised aloft to protect their faces, the English are at a manifest disadvantage in their encounters with the Norman knights. Almost the first to suffer in that iron storm is Harold himself. An arrow pierces his right eye. In agony he plucks it out, snaps it in two, and flings it from him; but the pain is so great that he leans heavily upon his shield.

Meanwhile another stratagem is equally successful. William orders a thousand horse to advance, and then to turn and flee. At the sight, the English behind their stockade leap forward and set off in wild pursuit, their axes suspended from their necks. When they are well away from their defences, the fleeing Normans wheel about, and the pursuers find themselves assailed on all sides with spear and sword. They are cut to pieces, and William speedily makes himself master of the position which they have abandoned. On either flank his horsemen also make good their ascent, and now a fierce hand-to-hand combat rages on the crest of the hill. Loud is the clamour, great is the slaughter, and the _mêlée_ is thickest round the standard where the hus-carles encircle the body of their king with a wall of living valour. One by one they fall, the rest betake themselves to flight, and the night falls on a stricken and wailing England.

Now see the torches flit about the field as the conquerors rifle the dead. Duke William’s tent is pitched on the spot where the fight has raged fiercest. Amidst the grisly mounds of slain he gives thanks for his victory, and eats and drinks and rests himself. The Sabbath morning dawns, and mournful parties of noble ladies, clad in the black robes of mourning, search the field for the bodies of their fathers, sons, husbands, or brothers. Two monks from the Abbey of Waltham, which Harold has founded, approach the conqueror and humbly offer him ten marks of gold for leave to carry away the remains of their benefactor. William grants them permission, and to and fro they go, anxiously and vainly searching the field for the body of the dead king. At length they call upon the “swan-necked Edith,” who loved him well, to assist in the search. She is more successful than they, and the mangled and disfigured corpse is given hurried burial beneath the high altar of Waltham Abbey.

While the conqueror plans a memorial fane on the blood-sodden ground, and marshals his forces for the march on London, the English are sunk in the depths of bitterness and despair. “England, what shall I say of thee?” wails the monkish scribe. “Thou hast lost thy national king, and sinkest under the foreigner, bathed in the blood of thy defenders!” The conqueror marches in triumph to London without striking a blow, and on Christmas Day an English archbishop places the crown upon his head in the Abbey of Westminster. There is bloodshed even on that day. When, according to the old English custom, Stigand, the archbishop, asks the assembled thanes if they will have the Norman for their king, loud shouts of assent are raised. The Norman guards surrounding the minster mistake the shouting within the abbey for the noise of strife, and immediately fire the neighbouring houses and slay the innocent spectators.

Hard and heavy will be the hand of the conqueror; harsh and cruel, but withal not unjust, will be his rule. Now that he has won the kingdom, he will strive to reign as a lawful king. Heavy fines will be exacted from the large landowners who have resisted him, but otherwise he will endeavour to rule as the rightful successor to Alfred and Edward the Confessor. But he will soon discover that England is yet unconquered. Revolts will spring up in all parts of the land, and there will be hard fighting, and harrying, and burning and slaying for many a year ere he is acknowledged king from the Cheviots to the Channel. After every revolt the lands of the insurgents will change hands, and Norman knights will gradually secure the fairest estates in the country. Grim castles of stone will spring up, and where they arise the Norman will rule as lord. The discontented amongst William’s followers will goad the English whose lands they covet into rebellion. They will treat the highspirited English to every insult and outrage which they can conceive, and when the maddened thanes lie stricken on the field they will be rewarded with their possessions. Thus the Norman will enter into the land to possess it.

When William was being crowned in Westminster Abbey, the archbishop, according to the old custom, asked the Norman and English nobles if they would have William for their king. They replied with loud shouts. The Norman soldiers outside the abbey thought that William was being attacked. They therefore fell on the people and set fire to the neighbouring houses. The picture shows the scene of alarm within the abbey. After a time order was restored, and the archbishop placed the crown on William’s head.

“_Such is the patriot’s boast, where’er we roam,_ _His first, best country ever is at home._”

This burly Englishman, with his long, flowing locks, his mighty thews and sinews, his undaunted heart, his craft and skill in warfare, needs no introduction. His name and fame are enshrined in every English heart, thanks to the splendid romance which Charles Kingsley has woven about his heroisms. Legend and tradition, song and story, have cast their spell about him, and none can read his thrilling adventures without a tribute of admiration and esteem. Wild and wayward he ever was, but mingled with the ferocity and craftiness of his nature was a childlike simplicity which endeared him to all. As a guerilla leader he was the keenest thorn in William’s side. “Were there but three men in England such as he,” said a chronicler, “William would never have won the land.”

The old stories describe him as a self-willed, boisterous lad, who caused his mother many a heartache and his father many an embarrassment, until at length he was outlawed and driven across the seas, where his mighty deeds of daring won him great renown. He may have been present at Hastings, though the chroniclers are silent on this point; but soon after the battle he was in Flanders, and only returned home when he learnt that his ancestral lands at Bourne in Lincolnshire had been granted to one Taillebois, who was even then in possession of them. Taillebois, by his insolence and cruelty, had made himself bitterly hated, and the men of the Fens were only waiting for a leader to rise in rebellion and thrust him out. Hereward suddenly arrived amongst them, and, so the story goes, swept his home clean of Frenchmen with his single sword. Eagerly the Fen men flocked to him, and acclaimed him as their leader. Soon the terror of his name spread far and wide, and the wild Fenland became a camp of refuge for those who would not bow the neck to the Norman yoke.

No part of England was better adapted for the purpose. It was a vast, low-lying wilderness of slow-moving rivers, spreading meres, and treacherous swamps, whose secret paths were known only to the natives. Here and there “islands” of firmer ground arose, and on these the towns and abbeys of Fenland were built. One of these “islands” was Ely, a matchless place of refuge, engirdled by waters and morasses. Here Hereward made his camp, and defied the Normans. Daily his forces grew, and daily he swooped down on his foes, appearing so suddenly and disappearing so magically into his reedy recesses that none could stay him or follow him. William soon perceived that he would never be master of England while the bold and watchful Hereward was at large.

Hereward had allied himself with the Danes, who swarmed into Fenland, and having burnt the “golden borough” of Peterborough, retired across the North Sea laden with its wondrous treasures—the gold crucifixes, the jewelled vessels, the costly vestments—which were the pride and glory of the abbey. Now that Hereward had rid himself of his troublesome allies, William determined to strike his blow.

Forthwith he marched an army to Cambridge, and invested the island of Ely on every side. The besieged built a great fortress of turf, collected food, and prepared to resist to the death. William determined to storm the island from Aldreth, between which place and Ely lay half a mile of reedy swamp. Collecting all the peasants of the countryside, he busied them in making a floating bridge, over which his army might pass to the capture of the beleaguered isle. Tradition tells us that Hereward, with his golden locks shorn and his beard shaved, laboured at the task, and that every night before he departed he set fire to the day’s work. At length, however, the bridge was finished, and William’s army began to march across it. The besieged watched the vast array crowd upon the frail bridge. Suddenly they saw it give way, and thousands were hurled into the thick slime, which speedily engulfed them. The first attack had hopelessly failed, and William himself had barely escaped destruction.

He was not daunted. With that wonderful perseverance and dogged determination which bore down every obstacle in his path, he built his bridge anew, profiting by his former experience. A huge floating sow protected the Ely end of the bridge, and was pushed forward as the work proceeded. Slowly but surely it grew until the sow was but fifty yards from Hereward’s fortress. A high wooden tower was erected at the farther end of the great work, and on this William planted a witch, who yelled and gibbered foul curses at the English as the Normans advanced.

The bridge was speedily covered with armed men. The front of the sow was let down, and gave footing to within a dozen yards of the wall of Hereward’s fort. As the Normans swarmed out with their scaling-ladders, the besieged hurled heavy stones upon them, and shot them down by scores, until the ditch was full of dead bodies. The besiegers planted their ladders on the corpses of the slain, and proceeded to mount them, but only one knight ever entered the fort.

Afar off a puff of smoke and a thin wisp of yellow flame were seen. Hereward had fired the reeds. “On came the flame, leaping and crackling, laughing and shrieking like a live fiend. The archers and slingers in the boats cowered before it, and fell, scorched corpses, as it swept on. It reached the causeway, surged up, recoiled from the mass of human beings, then sprang over their heads and passed onwards, girding them with flame. The reeds were burning around them; the timbers of the bridge caught fire; the peat and fagots smouldered beneath their feet. They sprang from the burning footway, and plunged into the fathomless bog, covering their faces and eyes with scorched hands, and then sank in the black, gurgling slime.”

Taillebois dragged William back, regardless of curses and prayers from his soldiery; and they reached the shore just in time to see between them and the water a long black, smouldering, writhing line; the morass to right and left, which had been a minute before deep reed, an open smutty pool, dotted with boats full of shrieking and cursing men; and at the causeway end, the tower with the flame climbing up its posts, and the witch of Brandon throwing herself desperately from the top, and falling dead upon the embers, a motionless heap of rags. “Fool that thou art! Fool that I was!” cried the great king, as he rolled off his horse at his tent door, cursing with rage and pain.

But he was not yet beaten. The lion in William having been defeated, the fox had his day. What force could not accomplish, craft and cunning might. No longer did he attempt to capture the island. He would starve it into submission, and meanwhile test the temper of the timorous monks who trembled in their cells. With lavish promises for their own safety and the possession of their abbey and its lands, they were beguiled, and at length they revealed the secret paths that led to the isle. One by one his friends deserted him, until at length the day arrived when Hereward too was forced to come in to the king—the last Englishman in the land to submit to the Norman. William received him gladly, for his heart ever warmed to a brave foe.

What the actual end of Hereward was we do not know, but we can readily believe that he died fighting, overborne by the number of his treacherous foes, and in his dying struggle doing miracles of valour. So he fades out of our pageant, but his memory will ever be dear to all Britons who love the gallant and brave, and deem the pure patriot the glory of his land.