lle; and embracing
his friend he renewed his journey.

CHAPTER VII.

Messire Mallet de Graville possessed in perfection that cunning
astuteness which characterised the Normans, as it did all the old pirate
races of the Baltic; and if, O reader, thou, peradveuture, shouldst ever
in this remote day have dealings with the tall men of Ebor or Yorkshire,
there wilt thou yet find the old Dane-father's wit--it may be to thy
cost--more especially if treating for those animals which the ancestors
ate, and which the sons, without eating, still manage to fatten on.

But though the crafty knight did his best, during his progress from
London into Wales, to extract from Sexwolf all such particulars
respecting Harold and his brethren as he had reasons for wishing to
learn, he found the stubborn sagacity or caution of the Saxon more than a
match for him. Sexwolf had a dog's instinct in all that related to his
master; and he felt, though he scarce knew why, that the Norman cloaked
some design upon Harold in all the cross-questionings so carelessly
ventured. And his stiff silence, or bluff replies, when Harold was
mentioned, contrasted much the unreserve of his talk when it turned upon
the general topics of the day, or the peculiarities of Saxon manners.

By degrees, therefore, the knight, chafed and foiled, drew into himself;
and seeing no farther use could be made of the Saxon, suffered his own
national scorn of villein companionship to replace his artificial
urbanity. He therefore rode alone, and a little in advance of the rest,
noticing with a soldier's eye the characteristics of the country, and
marvelling, while he rejoiced, at the insignificance of the defences
which, even on the Marches, guarded the English country from the Cymrian
ravager [156]. In musings of no very auspicious and friendly nature
towards the land he thus visited, the Norman, on the second day from that
in which he had conversed with the abbot, found himself amongst the
savage defiles of North Wales.

Pausing there in a narrow pass overhung with wild and desolate rocks, the
knight deliberately summoned his squires, clad himself in his ring mail,
and mounted his great destrier.

"Thou dost wrong, Norman," said Sexwolf, "thou fatiguest thyself in
vain--heavy arms here are needless. I have fought in this country
before: and as for thy steed, thou wilt soon have to forsake it, and
march on foot."

"Know, friend," retorted the knight, "that I come