t, and passed through the porch and
stood on the bleak rock under the light of the moon; and so seen, he
seemed scarcely human, but some war-chief of the farthest time,--yea, of
a time ere the deluge had shivered those rocks, and left beds on the land
for the realm of that icy sea. For Harold Hardrada was in height above
all the children of modern men. Five ells of Norway made the height of
Harold Hardrada [224]. Nor was this stature accompanied by any of those
imperfections in symmetry, nor by that heaviness of aspect, which
generally render any remarkable excess above human stature and strength
rather monstrous than commanding. On the contrary, his proportions were
just; his appearance noble; and the sole defect that the chronicler
remarks in his shape, was "that his hands and feet were large, but these
were well made." [225]

His face had all the fair beauty of the Norseman; his hair, parted in
locks of gold over a brow that bespoke the daring of the warrior and the
genius of the bard, fell in glittering profusion to his shoulders; a
short beard and long moustache of the same colour as the hair, carefully
trimmed, added to the grand and masculine beauty of the countenance, in
which the only blemish was the peculiarity of one eyebrow being somewhat
higher than the other [226], which gave something more sinister to his
frown, something more arch to his smile. For, quick of impulse, the
Poet-Titan smiled and frowned often.

Harold Hardrada stood in the light of the moon, and gazing thoughtfully
on the luminous sea. Tostig marked him for some moments where he sate in
the porch, and then rose and joined him.

"Why should my words so disturb thee, O King of the Norseman?"

"Is glory, then, a drug that soothes to sleep?" returned the Norwegian.

"I like thine answer," said Tostig, smiling, "and I like still more to
watch thine eye gazing on the prows of thy war-ships. Strange indeed it
were if thou, who hast been fighting fifteen years for the petty kingdom
of Denmark, shouldst hesitate now, when all England lies before thee to
seize."

"I hesitate," replied the King, "because he whom Fortune has befriended
so long, should beware how he strain her favour too far. Eighteen pitched
battles fought I in the Saracen land, and in every one was a
victor--never, at home or abroad, have I known shame and defeat. Doth
the wind always blow from one point?--and is Fate less unstable than the
wind?"

"Now, out on thee, H