rving the prelate's
reluctant countenance, "and leave we our reverend father to watch over
the Earl's sharp struggle."

"Thou speakest well, my son," said the prelate, "and thy mission suits
the young and the layman, better than the old and the priest."

"Let us go, Haco," said Gurth, briefly. "Deep, sore, and lasting, is the
wound I inflict on the brother of my love; and my own heart bleeds in
his; but he himself hath taught me to hold England as a Roman held Rome."

CHAPTER X.

It is the nature of that happiness which we derive from our affections to
be calm; its immense influence upon our outward life is not known till it
is troubled or withdrawn. By placing his heart at peace, man leaves vent
to his energies and passions, and permits their current to flow towards
the aims and objects which interest labour or arouse ambition. Thus
absorbed in the occupation without, he is lulled into a certain
forgetfulness of the value of that internal repose which gives health and
vigour to the faculties he employs abroad. But once mar this scarce
felt, almost invisible harmony, and the discord extends to the remotest
chords of our active being. Say to the busiest man whom thou seest in
mart, camp, or senate, who seems to thee all intent upon his worldly
schemes, "Thy home is reft from thee--thy household gods are
shattered--that sweet noiseless content in the regular mechanism of the
springs, which set the large wheels of thy soul into movement, is thine
nevermore!"--and straightway all exertion seems robbed of its object--all
aim of its alluring charm. "Othello's occupation is gone!" With a
start, that man will awaken from the sunlit visions of noontide ambition,
and exclaim in his desolation anguish, "What are all the rewards to my
labour now thou hast robbed me of repose? How little are all the gains
wrung from strife, in a world of rivals and foes, compared to the smile
whose sweetness I knew not till it was lost; and the sense of security
from mortal ill which I took from the trust and sympathy of love?"

Thus was it with Harold in that bitter and terrible crisis of his fate.
This rare and spiritual love, which had existed on hope which had never
known fruition, had become the subtlest, the most exquisite part of his
being; this love, to the full and holy possession of which, every step in
his career seemed to advance him, was it now to be evermore reft from his
heart, his existence, at the very moment when