at holy bed. And the woman
silently, and by the help of no light save the moon, was intent on her
search. She waved her hand impatiently as they approached, as if jealous
of the dead; but as she had not sought, so neither did she oppose, their
aid. Moaning low to herself, she desisted from her task, and knelt
watching them, and shaking her head mournfully, as they removed helm
after helm, and lowered the torches upon stern and livid brows. At
length the lights fell red and full on the ghastly face of Haco--proud
and sad as in life.

De Graville uttered an exclamation: "The King's nephew: be sure the King
is near!"

A shudder went over the woman's form, and the moaning ceased.

They unhelmed another corpse; and the monks and the knight, after one
glance, turned away sickened and awe-stricken at the sight: for the face
was all defeatured and mangled with wounds; and nought could they
recognise save the ravaged majesty of what had been man. But at the
sight of that face a wild shriek broke from Edith's heart.

She started to her feet--put aside the monks with a wild and angry
gesture, and bending over the face, sought with her long hair to wipe
from it the clotted blood; then with convulsive fingers, she strove to
loosen the buckler of the breast-mail. The knight knelt to assist her.
"No, no," she gasped out. "He is mine--mine now!"

Her hands bled as the mail gave way to her efforts; the tunic beneath was
all dabbled with blood. She rent the folds, and on the breast, just
above the silenced heart, were punctured in the old Saxon letters; the
word "EDITH;" and just below, in characters more fresh, the word
"ENGLAND."

"See, see!" she cried in piercing accents; and, clasping the dead in her
arms, she kissed the lips, and called aloud, in words of the tenderest
endearments, as if she addressed the living. All there knew then that
the search was ended; all knew that the eyes of love had recognised the
dead.

"Wed, wed," murmured the betrothed; "wed at last! O Harold, Harold! the
words of the Vala were true--and Heaven is kind!" and laying her head
gently on the breast of the dead, she smiled and died.

At the east end of the choir in the Abbey of Waltham, was long shown the
tomb of the Last Saxon King, inscribed with the touching words--"Harold
Infelix." But not under that stone, according to the chronicler who
should best know the truth [277], mouldered the dust of him in whose
grave was buried an epoch i