for the first time broke the silence.

"Again--as in a dream!" he said, abruptly. "Hill, ruin, grave-mound--but
where the tall image of the mighty one?"

"Hast thou then seen this spot before?" asked the Earl.

"Yea, as an infant here was I led by my father Sweyn; here too, from thy
house yonder, dim seen through the fading leaves, on the eve before I
left this land for the Norman, here did I wander alone; and there, by
that altar, did the great Vala of the North chaunt her runes for my
future."

"Alas! thou too!" murmured Harold; and then he asked aloud, "What said
she?"

"That thy life and mine crossed each other in the skein; that I should
save thee from a great peril, and share with thee a greater."

"Ah, youth," answered Harold, bitterly, "these vain prophecies of human
wit guard the soul from no anger. They mislead us by riddles which our
hot hearts interpret according to their own desires. Keep thou fast to
youth's simple wisdom, and trust only to the pure spirit and the watchful
God."

He suppressed a groan as he spoke, and springing from his steed, which he
left loose, advanced up the hill. When he had gained the height, he
halted, and made sign to Haco, who had also dismounted, to do the same.
Half way down the side of the slope which faced the ruined peristyle,
Haco beheld a maiden, still young, and of beauty surpassing all that the
court of Normandy boasted of female loveliness. She was seated on the
sward;--while a girl younger, and scarcely indeed grown into womanhood,
reclined at her feet, and leaning her cheek upon her hand, seemed hushed
in listening attention. In the face of the younger girl Haco recognised
Thyra, the last-born of Githa, though he had but once seen her
before--the day ere he left England for the Norman court--for the face of
the girl was but little changed, save that the eye was more mournful, and
the cheek was paler.

And Harold's betrothed was singing, in the still autumn air, to Harold's
sister. The song chosen was on that subject the most popular with the
Saxon poets, the mystic life, death, and resurrection of the fabled
Phoenix, and this rhymeless song, in its old native flow, may yet find
some grace in the modern ear.

THE LAY OF THE PHOENIX. [206]

"Shineth far hence--so
Sing the wise elders
Far to the fire-east
The fairest of lands.

Daintily dight is that
Dearest of joy fields;
Breezes all balmy-filled