with
a tone of pity in his voice, as he contemplated the stately boyhood, and
proud, but deep grief in the face of Olave; "for thee, wilt thou not live
to learn that the wars of Odin are treason to the Faith of the Cross? We
have conquered--we dare not butcher. Take such ships as ye need for
those that survive. Three-and-twenty I offer for your transport. Return
to your native shores, and guard them as we have guarded ours. Are ye
contented?" Amongst those chiefs was a stern priest--the Bishop of the
Orcades--he advanced and bent his knee to the King.

"O Lord of England," said he, "yesterday thou didst conquer the
form--to-day, the soul. And never more may generous Norsemen invade the
coast of him who honours the dead and spares the living."

"Amen!" cried the chiefs, and they all knelt to Harold. The young Prince
stood a moment irresolute, for his dead father was on the bier before
him, and revenge was yet a virtue in the heart of a sea-king. But lifting
his eyes to Harold's, the mild and gentle majesty of the Saxon's brow was
irresistible in its benign command; and stretching his right hand to the
King, he raised on high the other, and said aloud, "Faith and friendship
with thee and England evermore."

Then all the chiefs rising, they gathered round the bier, but no hand, in
the sight of the conquering foe, lifted the cloth of gold that covered
the corpse of the famous King. The bearers of the bier moved on slowly
towards the boat; the Norwegians followed with measured funereal steps.
And not till the bier was placed on board the royal galley was there
heard the wail of woe; but then it came, loud, and deep, and dismal, and
was followed by a burst of wild song from a surviving Scald.

The Norwegian preparations for departure were soon made, and the ships
vouchsafed to their convoy raised anchor, and sailed down the stream.
Harold's eye watched the ships from the river banks.

"And there," said he, at last, "there glide the last sails that shall
ever bear the devastating raven to the shores of England."

Truly, in that field had been the most signal defeat those warriors,
hitherto almost invincible, had known. On that bier lay the last son of
Berserker and sea-king: and be it, O Harold, remembered in thine honour,
that not by the Norman, but by thee, true-hearted Saxon, was trampled on
the English soil the Ravager of the World! [251]

"So be it," said Haco, "and so, methinks, will it be. But forget not