fro the King's chamber.

In that chamber, traversing the past of eight centuries, enter we with
hushed and noiseless feet--a room known to us in many a later scene and
legend of England's troubled history, as "THE PAINTED CHAMBER," long
called "THE CONFESSOR'S." At the farthest end of that long and lofty
space, raised upon a regal platform, and roofed with regal canopy, was
the bed of death.

At the foot stood Harold; on one side knelt Edith, the King's lady; at
the other Alred; while Stigand stood near--the holy rood in his hand--and
the abbot of the new monastery of Westminster by Stigand's side; and all
the greatest thegns, including Morcar and Edwin, Gurth and Leofwine, all
the more illustrious prelates and abbots, stood also on the dais.

In the lower end of the hall, the King's physician was warming a cordial
over the brazier, and some of the subordinate officers of the household
were standing in the niches of the deep-set windows; and they--not great
eno' for other emotions than those of human love for their kindly
lord--they wept.

The King, who had already undergone the last holy offices of the Church,
was lying quite quiet, his eyes half closed, breathing low but regularly.
He had been speechless the two preceding days; on this he had uttered a
few words, which showed returning consciousness. His hand, reclined on
the coverlid, was clasped in his wife's who was praying fervently.
Something in the touch of her hand, or the sound of her murmur, stirred
the King from the growing lethargy, and his eyes opening, fixed on the
kneeling lady.

"Ah?" said he faintly, "ever good, ever meek! Think not I did not love
thee; hearts will be read yonder; we shall have our guerdon."

The lady looked up through her streaming tears. Edward released his
hand, and laid it on her head as in benediction. Then motioning to the
abbot of Westminster, he drew from his finger the ring which the palmer
had brought to him [217], and murmured scarce audibly:

"Be this kept in the House of St. Peter in memory of me!"

"He is alive now to us--speak--" whispered more than one thegn, one
abbot, to Alred and to Stigand. And Stigand, as the harder and more
worldly man of the two, moved up, and bending over the pillow, between
Alred and the King, said:

"O royal son, about to win the crown to which that of earth is but an
idiot's wreath of withered leaves, not yet may thy soul forsake us. Whom
commendest thou to us as shepherd to t