was singularly noble, but wholly without formality or affected
state; and though haughtiness and arrogance were largely attributed to
him, they could be found only in his deeds, not manner--plain, familiar,
kindly to all men, his heart seemed as open to the service of his
countrymen as his hospitable door to their wants.

Behind him stood the stateliest group of sons that ever filled with pride
a father's eye. Each strikingly distinguished from the other, all
remarkable for beauty of countenance and strength of frame.

Sweyn, the eldest [82], had the dark hues of his mother the Dane: a wild
and mournful majesty sat upon features aquiline and regular, but wasted
by grief or passion; raven locks, glossy even in neglect, fell half over
eyes hollow in their sockets, but bright, though with troubled fire.
Over his shoulder he bore his mighty axe. His form, spare, but of
immense power, was sheathed in mail, and he leant on his great pointed
Danish shield. At his feet sate his young son Haco, a boy with a
countenance preternaturally thoughtful for his years, which were yet
those of childhood.

Next to him stood the most dreaded and ruthless of the sons of
Godwin--he, fated to become to the Saxon what Julian was to the Goth.
With his arms folded on his breast stood Tostig; his face was beautiful
as a Greek's, in all save the forehead, which was low and lowering. Sleek
and trim were his bright chestnut locks; and his arms were damascened
with silver, for he was one who loved the pomp and luxury of war.

Wolnoth, the mother's favourite, seemed yet in the first flower of youth,
but he alone of all the sons had something irresolute and effeminate in
his aspect and bearing; his form, though tall, had not yet come to its
full height and strength; and, as if the weight of mail were unusual to
him, he leant with both hands upon the wood of his long spear. Leofwine,
who stood next to Wolnoth, contrasted him notably; his sunny locks
wreathed carelessly over a white unclouded brow, and the silken hair on
the upper lip quivered over arch lips, smiling, even in that serious
hour.

At Godwin's right hand, but not immediately near him, stood the last of
the group, Gurth and Harold. Gurth had passed his arm over the shoulder
of his brother, and, not watching the nuncius while he spoke, watched
only the effect his words produced on the face of Harold. For Gurth
loved Harold as Jonathan loved David. And Harold was the only one of the