pared for him in haste. Hilda herself
led him to a rude ladder which admitted to a room above, evidently added,
by some Saxon lord, to the old Roman pile. The ladder showed the
precaution of one accustomed to sleep in the midst of peril, for, by a
kind of windlass in the room, it could be drawn up at the inmate's will,
and, so drawn, left below a dark and deep chasm, delving down to the
foundations of the house; nevertheless the room itself had all the luxury
of the time; the bedstead was quaintly carved, and of some rare wood; a
trophy of arms--though very ancient, sedulously polished--hung on the
wall. There were the small round shield and spear of the earlier Saxon,
with his vizorless helm, and the short curved knife or saex [98], from
which some antiquarians deem that the Saxish men take their renowned
name.

Edith, following Hilda, proffered to the guest, on a salver of gold,
spiced wines and confections; while Hilda, silently and unperceived,
waved her seid-staff over the bed, and rested her pale hand on the
pillow.

"Nay, sweet cousin," said Harold, smiling, "this is not one of the
fashions of old, but rather, methinks, borrowed from the Frankish manners
in the court of King Edward."

"Not so, Harold," answered Hilda, quickly turning; "such was ever the
ceremony due to Saxon king, when he slept in a subject's house, ere our
kinsmen the Danes introduced that unroyal wassail, which left subject and
king unable to hold or to quaff cup, when the board was left for the
bed."

"Thou rebukest, O Hilda, too tauntingly, the pride of Godwin's house,
when thou givest to his homely son the ceremonial of a king. But, so
served, I envy not kings, fair Edith."

He took the cup, raised it to his lips, and when he placed it on the
small table by his side the women had left the chamber, and he was alone.
He stood for some minutes absorbed in reverie, and his soliloquy ran
somewhat thus:

"Why said the Vala that Edith's fate was inwoven with mine? And why did
I believe and bless the Vala, when she so said? Can Edith ever be my
wife? The monk-king designs her for the cloister--Woe, and well-a-day!
Sweyn, Sweyn, let thy doom forewarn me! And if I stand up in my place
and say, 'Give age and grief to the cloister--youth and delight to man's
hearth,' what will answer the monks? 'Edith cannot be thy wife, son of
Godwin, for faint and scarce traced though your affinity of blood, ye are
within the banned degrees of the Chu