lapped as it followed, so that the
vast raven depicted on its folds seemed horrid with life. And calm and
alone, his eye watchful, his axe lifted, his foot ready for rush or for
spring--but firm as an oak against flight--stood the Last of the Saxon
Kings.

Down bounded Hardrada, and down shore his sword; King Harold's shield was
cloven in two, and the force of the blow brought himself to his knee.
But, as swift as the flash of that sword, he sprang to his feet; and
while Hardrada still bowed his head, not recovered from the force of his
blow, the axe of the Saxon came so full on his helmet, that the giant
reeled, dropped his sword, and staggered back; his Scalds and his chiefs
rushed around him. That gallant stand of King Harold saved his English
from flight; and now, as they saw him almost lost in the throng, yet
still cleaving his way--on, on--to the raven standard, they rallied with
one heart, and shouting forth, "Out, out! Holy Crosse!" forced their way
to his side, and the fight now waged hot and equal, hand to hand.
Meanwhile Hardrada, borne a little apart, and relieved from his dinted
helmet, recovered the shock of the weightiest blow that had ever dimmed
his eye and numbed his hand. Tossing the helmet on the ground, his bright
locks glittering like sun-beams, he rushed back to the melee. Again helm
and mail went down before him; again through the crowd he saw the arm
that had smitten him; again he sprang forwards to finish the war with a
blow,--when a shaft from some distant bow pierced the throat which the
casque now left bare; a sound like the wail of a death-song murmured
brokenly from his lips, which then gushed out with blood, and tossing up
his arms wildly, he fell to the ground, a corpse. At that sight, a yell
of such terror, and woe, and wrath all commingled, broke from the
Norsemen, that it hushed the very war for the moment!

"On!" cried the Saxon King; "let our earth take its spoiler! On to the
standard, and the day is our own!"

"On to the standard!" cried Haco, who, his horse slain under him, all
bloody with wounds not his own, now came to the King's side. Grim and
tall rose the standard, and the streamer shrieked and flapped in the wind
as if the raven had voice, when, right before Harold, right between him
and the banner, stood Tostig his brother, known by the splendour of his
mail, the gold work on his mantle--known by the fierce laugh, and the
defying voice.

"What matters!" cried Haco