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 priēsts." "Mỹ men," replied Harold, with a laugh, "will find those priests good soldiers!"

"The Saxons," reported Duke William's outposts of Norman soldiers, who were instructed to retire aș 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 ärmies lay encamped before each other, in a part of the country then called Senlac, now câlled (in remembrance of them) Battle. With the first dawn of day they arōṣe. There, in the faint light, were the English on a hill; a wood behind them; in their midst the Royal banner, representing a fighting wârrior, woven in gōld thread, adorned with precious stones. Beneath the banner,

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 ärmy-cvery soldier covered by his shield, and bearing in his hand his dreaded English battle-axe.

On an oppoșite hill, in three lines—ärchers, foot

F

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 tâll Norman knight, who rōde befōre 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 rōde out from the English fōrce to meet him, fell by this knight's hand. Another English knight rōde out, and he fell too. But then a thîrd rōde 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 a great mass, cared nō mōre for the show-ers 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 bē 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 âll that fōremōs. pōrtion of the English ärmy 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 rōde up, like forests of young trees. Duke William pretended to retreat. The eager English followed. The Norman ärmy clōṣed 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 ärchers, that your arrōwṣ may fâll down upon their faces!"

The sun rose high, and sank, and the battle still raged. Through âll 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, âll ōver the ground. King Harold, wounded with an arrōw in the eye, was nearly blind. His brothers were âlready killed. Twenty Norman knights, whose battered ärmor had flashed fiery and golden in the sunshine âll day long, and now looked silvery in the moonlight, dashed forward to seize the Royal banner from the English knights and sōldiers still faithfülly 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.

Oh, what a sight beneath the moon and stärs, 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 frō without, sought for the corpse of Harold among piles of dead-and the Wârrior, worked in golden thread and precious stōnes, lay lōw, âll torn and soiled with blood, and the three Norman Lions kept watch över the field!

30.-THE PEAR-TREE IN THE COURT.

A Pear-tree stood in a narrow court. It was hemmed in âll round by high brick houses, and the sky to which it looked up was därkened by the smoke of the great city. The houses in this court were all black with age. They had once, in ōlden days, been grand mansions, inhabited by nōbles; but now their greatness was passed, and they were only lodging-houses, tenanted by the poorest class of people. No one knew how the Pear-tree came there. It seemed sadly out of place, indeed, for there was nō tree within sight-from the top of the highest garret window ÿoû could see nothing but roofs of houses and tâll chimney-stâlks, as far as the eye could reach. Certainly the poor lōne tree was strangely out of place!

It was the end of May, and in the country the trees were already gärbed in their bright spring dress, and the bîrds which thronged their branches sung flattering little songs to them. But it was very different in the city. There was nothing in the little därk court to betōken spring; the very breezes that

swept over country fields, awakening the daisies and buttercups with their brisk kisses and pleaṣant whispers of summer-time, grew so loaded with smōke and foulness as they passed over the city, that they tōld nō tāle to the Pear-tree, who still remained wrapt up in his heavy winter sleep, giving nō heed to them as they shook hands in passing, with hiṣ bāre sooty twigs. But the next day the sun shone out sō bright and wârm that one of the beams pierced right through the thick cloud of smoke, and lighted on the poor black tree. The dîrt and impurity of the city air could not dim or injure it; and it wândered among the rough naked branches, touching and brightening each twig as it passed, till at last it spoke to the heart of the tree itself, and said that winter was ōver, and spring was come, and that it was time for the leaflets to peep fōrth; for in the country the trees were âlready green, and the bîrds were beginning to build in them. So the tree awōke from his slumber at the voice of the sunbeam, and his leafbuds began to swell and widen, and at last to burst their covering, and to show their delicate green. The sunbeam came nearly every day, if only for a few minutes, to see how the leaflets got on; and the poor tree welcomed its appearance as well as hē could, by turning all his young budding leaves tōwards it, and making a joyful rustling with its branches.

The children in the court were well pleased to see the tree grow green: but he himself could well have