of the three Lions of Normandy, the diverse-coloured
sails, the gilded vanes, the many
decorations of this gorgeous ship, had glittered in
the sun and sunny water; by night, a light
had sparkled like a star at her mast-head.
And, now encamped near Hastings, with their
leader lying in the old Roman castle of
Pevensey, the English retiring in all directions,
the land for miles around scorched and
smoking, fired and pillaged, was the whole
Norman power, hopeful and strong on English
ground.

Harold broke up the feast and hurried to
London. Within a week, his army was ready.
He sent out spies to ascertain the Norman
strength. William caused them to be led
through his whole camp, and then dismissed.
"The Normans," said these spies to Harold,
"are not bearded on the upper lip as we
English are, but are shorn. They are priests."
"My men," replied Harold, with a laugh,
"will find good soldiers in those priests!"

"The Saxons," reported Duke William's
out-posts of Norman soldiers, who were
instructed to retire as King Harold's army
advanced, " rush on us through their pillaged
country with the fury of madmen."

"Let them come, and come soon! " said
Duke William.

Some proposals for a reconciliation were
made, but were soon abandoned. In the
middle of the month of October, in the year
one thousand and sixty-six, the Normans and
the English came front to front. All night
the armies lay encamped before each other, in
a part of the country then called Senlac, now
called (in remembrance of them) Battle. With
the first dawn of day, they arose. There, in
the faint light, were the English on a hill; a
wood behind them; in their midst, the Royal
banner, representing a fighting warrior, woven
in gold thread, adorned with precious stones;
beneath the banner, as it rustled in the wind,
stood King Harold on foot, with two of his
remaining brothers by his side; around them,
still and silent as the dead, clustered the
whole English army, every soldier covered by
his shield, and bearing in his hand his dreaded
English battle-axe. On an opposite hill, in
three lines, archers, foot-soldiers, horsemen,
was the Norman force. Of a sudden, a great
battle-cry, " God help us! " burst from the
Norman lines. The English answered with
their own battle-cry, " God's Rood! Holy
Rood! " The Normans then came sweeping
down the hill to attack the English.

There was one tall Norman Knight who
rode before the Norman army on a prancing
horse, throwing up his heavy sword and
catching it, and singing of the bravery of his
countrymen. An English Knight, who rode
out from the English force to meet him, fell
by this Knight's hand. Another English
Knight rode out, and he fell too. But, then, a
third rode out, and killed the Norman. This
was in the first beginning of the fight. It
soon raged everywhere.

The English, keeping side by side in one
great mass, cared no more for the showers of
Norman arrows than if they had been showers
of Norman rain. When the Norman horsemen
rode against them, with their battle-axes
they cut men and horses down. The
Normans gave way. The English pressed
forward. A cry went forth among the Norman
troops that Duke William was killed.
Duke William took off his helmet in order
that his face might be distinctly seen, and
rode along the line before his men. This gave
them courage. As they turned again to face
the English, some of their Norman horse
divided the pursuing body of the English
from the rest, and thus all that portion of the
English army fell, fighting bravely. The main
body still remaining firm, heedless of the
Norman arrows, and, with their battle-axes
cutting down the crowds of horsemen when
they rode up, like forests of young trees,
Duke William pretended to retreat. The
eager English followed. The Norman army
closed again, and fell upon them with great
slaughter. "Still," said Duke William, "there
are thousands of the English, firm as rocks
around their King. Shoot upward, Norman
archers, that your arrows may fall down upon
their faces!"

The sun rose high, and sank, and the battle
still raged. Through all the wild October
day, the clash and din resounded in the air.
In the red sunset, and in the white moonlight,
heaps upon heaps of dead men lay strewn, a
dreadful spectacle, all over the ground. King
Harold, wounded with an arrow in the eye,
was nearly blind. His brothers were already
killed. Twenty Norman knights, whose battered
armour had flashed fiery and golden in
the sunshine all day long, and now looked
silvery in the moonlight, dashed forward to
seize the Royal banner from the English
knights and soldiers, still faithfully collected
round their blinded King. The King received
a mortal wound, and dropped. The English
broke and fled. The Normans rallied, and
the day was lost.

O what a sight beneath the moon and stars,
when lights were shining in the tent of the
victorious Duke William, which was pitched
near the spot where Harold fell—and he
and his knights were carousing within—and
soldiers with torches, going slowly to and
fro without, sought for the corpse of Harold
among piles of dead—and the Warrior, worked
in golden thread and precious stones, lay low,
all torn and soiled with blood—and the three
Norman Lions kept watch over the field!

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