The horse's leg—it was mine own to break;

I like to have my toys, and break them too.

William. Well, thou shalt have another Norman knight!

William Rufus. And may I break his legs?

Yea, get thee gone!

William.
William Rufus. I'll tell them I have had my way

with thee.

[Exit.

Malet. I never knew thee check thy will for aught Save for the prattling of thy little ones.

William. Who shall be kings of England. I am heir

Of England by the promise of her king.

Malet. But there the great Assembly choose their king,

The choice of England is the voice of England. William. I will be king of England by the laws, The choice, and voice of England.

Malet.

Can that be?

William. The voice of any people is the sword That guards them, or the sword that beats them down. Here comes the would-be what I will be-kinglike

Tho' scarce at ease; for, save our meshes break,
More kinglike he than like to prove a king.

(Enter Harold, musing, with his eyes on the ground.)

Harold. (A man-at-arms follows him.)

*

I need thee not. Why dost thou follow me?

Man-at-arms. I have the Count's commands to follow thee.

Harold. What then? Am I in danger in this court? Man-at-arms. I cannot tell. I have the Count's commands.

Harold. Stand out of earshot then, and keep me still

In eyeshot.

Man-at-arms. Yea, Lord Harold. (Withdraws.) Harold.

And arm'd men

Ever keep watch beside my chamber door,
And if I walk within the lonely wood,

There is an arm'd man ever glides behind!

Shall see the dewy kiss of dawn no more

Make blush the maiden-white of our tall cliffs,

Yea, and I

Nor mark the sea-bird rouse himself and hover
Above the windy ripple, and fill the sky
With free sea-laughter- never save indeed
Thou canst make yield this iron-mooded Duke
To let me go.

Harold.

Why, brother, so he will:

But on conditions. Canst thou guess at them? Wulfnoth. Draw nearer, I was in the corridor, I saw him coming with his brother Odo

The Bayeux bishop, and I hid myself.

Harold. They did thee wrong who made thee hostage; thou

Wast ever fearful.

Wulfnoth.

And he spoke - I heard him —

"This Harold is not of the royal blood,

Can have no right to the crown," and Odo said, "Thine is the right, for thine the might: he is here, And yonder is thy keep."

Harold.

No, Wulfnoth, no.

Wulfnoth. And William laugh'd and swore that might was right,

Far as he knew in this poor world of ours.

"Marry, the Saints must go along with us, And, brother, we will find a way," said he— Yea, yea, he would be king of England.

Harold.

Never!

Wulfnoth. Yea, but thou must not this way answer him.

Harold. Is it not better still to speak the truth? Wulfnoth. Not here, or thou wilt never hence nor I;

For in the racing toward this golden goal
He turns not right or left, but tramples flat
Whatever thwarts him; hast thou never heard
His savagery at Alençon, the town

Hung out raw hides along their walls, and cried
“Work for the tanner."

Harold.

Had I been William.

Wulfnoth.

That had angered me,

Nay, but he had prisoners,

He tore their eyes out, sliced their hands away,
And flung them streaming o'er the battlements
Upon the heads of those who walk'd within

O speak him fair, Harold, for thine own sake.
Harold. Your Welshman says, "The Truth against

the World,"

Much more the truth against myself.

Wulfnoth. Thyself? But for my sake, oh, brother! oh! for my sake! Harold. Poor Wulfnoth! do they not entreat thee well?

Wulfnoth. I see the blackness of my dungeon loom Across their lamps of revel, and beyond

The merriest murmurs of their banquet clank
The shackles that will bind me to the wall.
Harold. Too fearful still.

Wulfnoth.

Oh, no, no, speak him fair!

Call it to temporize; and not to lie;

Harold, I do not counsel thee to lie.

The man that hath to foil a murderous aim
May, surely, play with words.

D

Harold.

Words are the man.

Not ev'n for thy sake, brother, would I lie.

Wulfnoth. Then for thine Edith?

Harold.

There thou prickst me deep.

Deeper still.

Wulfnoth. And for our Mother England?

Harold.

Wulfnoth. And deeper still the deep-down oubli

ette,

Down thirty feet below the smiling day

In blackness — dogs' food thrown upon thy head.
And over thee the suns arise and set,

And the lark sings, the sweet stars come and go,
And men are at their markets, in their fields,
And woo their loves and have forgotten thee;
And thou art upright in thy living grave,
Where there is barely room to shift thy side,
And all thine England hath forgotten thee;
And he our lazy-pious Norman King,
With all his Normans round him once again,
Counts his old beads, and hath forgotten thee.

William. Why then the heir of England, who is he? Harold. The Atheling is nearest to the throne.