Edith. Look out upon the battle — is he safe? Stigand. He stands between the banners with the dead

So piled about him he can hardly move.

Edith (takes up the war-cry).

Norman Cries. Ha Rou!

Edith (cries out).

Norman Cries. Ha Rou! Ha Rou!

Edith.

Out! out!

Harold and Holy Cross !

What is that whirring sound?

Stigand. The Norman sends his arrows up to Heaven,

They fall on those within the palisade!

Edith. Look out upon the hill-is Harold there? Stigand. Sanguelac - Sanguelac- the arrowthe arrow!-away!

SCENE II. Field of the Dead. Night.

Edith, beside Harold's body. Count William and

Edith.

Malet.

And thou,

(Falls on Harold's body and dies.)

Thy wife am I for ever and evermore.

William. Death!- and enough of death for this

one day,

The day of St. Calixtus, and the day,

My day, when I was born.

Malet.

And this dead king's,

Who, king or not, hath kinglike fought and fallen, His birthday, too. It seems but yestereven

I held it with him in his English halls,

His day, with all his rooftree ringing "Harold,”
Before he fell into the snare of Guy;

When all men counted Harold would be king,
And Harold was most happy.

William.

Thou art half English.

Take them away!

Malet, I vow I build a church to God

Here on this hill of battle; let our high altar

Stand where their standard fell - where these two lie.

Take them away, I do not love to see them.

Pluck the dead woman off the dead man, Malet!

Wrap them together in a purple cloak

And lay them both upon the waste seashore
At Hastings, there to guard the land for which
He did forswear himself a warrior - ay,
And but that Holy Peter fought for us,
And that the false Northumbrian held aloof,
And save for that chance arrow which the Saints
Sharpen'd and sent against him who can tell?—
Three horses had I slain beneath me: twice

-

I thought that all was lost. Since I knew battle,
And that was from my boyhood, never yet-
No, by the splendor of God - have I fought men
Like Harold and his brethren, and his guard

Of English. Every man about his king

Fell where he stood. They loved him: and, pray God

My Normans may but move as true with me
To the door of death. Of one self-stock at first,
Make them again one people — Norman, English;
And English, Norman ; — we should have a hand
To grasp the world with, and a foot to stamp it -
Flat. Praise the Saints. It is over. No more blood!
I am King of England, so they thwart mẹ not,
And I will rule according to their laws.

THE RED KING

CHARLES KINGSLEY

10PT-1130

WILLIAM RUFUS, THE RED (1866-1087), was a man of fierce and cruel temper. Far from working for the happiness of his people, he plundered the rich and oppressed the poor. His greed of gold and his reckless pursuit of evil pleasures made him many enemies. This much-hated king was shot by an arrow, whether by accident or intentionally was never known, while hunting in the New Forest. A brother of William Rufus and a nephew had already been killed in this same forest, and men believed that a curse rested on the place.

The King was drinking in Malwood Hall,
There came in a monk before them all:

He thrust by squire, he thrust by knight,
Stood over against the dais aright;

And, "The Word of the Lord, thou cruel Red King,
The word of the Lord to thee I bring.

1

A grimly sweven 1 I dreamt yestreen;
I saw thee lie under the hollins green,
And through thine heart an arrow keen;
And out of thy body a smoke did rise,
Which smirched the sunshine out of the skies:

1 ominous dream.

So if thou God's anointed be

I rede thee unto thy soul thou see.

For mitre and pall thou hast y-sold,

False knight to Christ, for gain and gold;
And for this thy forest were digged down all,
Steading and hamlet and churches tall;
And Christès poor were ousten forth,
To beg their bread from south to north.
So tarry at home, and fast and pray,
Lest fiends hunt thee in the judgment-day."

The monk he vanished where he stood; King William sterte up wroth and wood 2; Quod 3 he, "Fools' wits will jump together; The Hampshire ale and the thunder weather Have turned the brains for us both, I think; And monks are curst when they fall to drink. A lothly sweven I dreamt last night,

How there hoved 5 anigh me a griesly knight,
Did smite me down to the pit of hell;

I shrieked and woke, so fast I fell.
There's Tyrrel as sour as I, perdie,
So he of you all shall hunt with me;
A grimly brace 6 for a hart to see."

The Red King down from Malwood came; His heart with wine was all aflame,

His eyne were shotten, red as blood,
He rated and swore, wherever he rode.

They roused a hart, that grimly brace;
A hart of ten, a hart of grease,
Fled over against the kingès place.
The sun it blinded the kingès ee,

A fathom behind his hocks shot he:

"Shoot thou," quod he, "in the fiendès name,
To lose such a quarry were seven years' shame."
And he hove up his hand to mark the game.
Tyrrel he shot full light, God wot;

For whether the saints they swerved the shot,
Or whether by treason, men knowen not,
But under the arm, in a secret part,

The iron fled through the kingès heart.

The turf it squelched where the Red King fell,
And the fiends they carried his soul to hell,
Quod "His master's name it hath sped him well."

Tyrrel he smited full grim that day,

Quod "Shooting of kings is no bairns' play;"
And he smote in the spurs, and fled fast away.
As he pricked along by Fritham plain,

The green tufts flew behind like rain;

The waters were out, and over the sward:
He swam his horse like a stalwart lord;

Men clepen1 that water Tyrrel's ford.
By Rhinefield and by Osmondsleigh,
Through glade and furze-brake fast drove he,
Until he heard the roaring sea;

Quod he, "Those gay waves they call me."
By Mary's grace a seely 2 boat