unmoved. But when he turned to Harold, who
covered his face with his hand; but could not restrain the tears that
flowed through the clasped fingers, a moisture came into his own wild,
bright eyes, and he said, "Now, my brother, farewell, for no farther step
shalt thou wend with me."

Harold started, opened his arms, and the outlaw fell upon his breast.

No sound was heard save a single sob, and so close was breast to breast,
that you could not say from whose heart it came. Then the outlaw
wrenched himself from the embrace, and murmured, "And Haco--my
son--motherless, fatherless--hostage in the land of the stranger! Thou
wilt remember--thou wilt shield him; thou be to him mother, father in the
days to come! So may the saints bless thee!" With these words he sprang
down the hillock.

Harold bounded after him; but Sweyn, halting, said, mournfully, "Is this
thy promise? Am I so lost that faith should be broken even with thy
father's son?"

At that touching rebuke, Harold paused, and the outlaw passed his way
alone. As the last glimpse of his figure vanished at the turn of the
road, whence, on the second of May, the Norman Duke and the Saxon King
had emerged side by side, the short twilight closed abruptly, and up from
the far forestland rose the moon.

Harold stood rooted to the spot, and still gazing on the space, when the
Vala laid her hand on his arm.

"Behold, as the moon rises on the troubled gloaming, so rises the fate of
Harold, as yon brief, human shadow, halting between light and darkness,
passes away to night. Thou art now the first-born of a House that unites
the hopes of the Saxon with the fortunes of the Dane."

"Thinkest thou," said Harold, with a stern composure, "that I can have
joy and triumph in a brother's exile and woe?"

"Not now, and not yet, will the voice of thy true nature be heard; but
the warmth of the sun brings the thunder, and the glory of fortune wakes
the storm of the soul."

"Kinswoman," said Harold, with a slight curl of his lip, "by me at least
have thy prophecies ever passed as the sough of the air; neither in
horror nor with faith do I think of thy incantations and charms; and I
smile alike at the exorcism of the shaveling and the spells of the Saga.
I have asked thee not to bless mine axe, nor weave my sail. No runic
rhyme is on the sword-blade of Harold. I leave my fortunes to the chance
of mine own cool brain and strong arm. Vala, between thee and me there
is no bo