The prelate turned, and with him went the conclave. Left alone with Haco, the last said, abruptly:
“Thou wilt not be so indiscreet, O Harold, as to confess thy compelled oath to the fraudful Norman?”
“That is my design,” replied Harold, coldly.
The son of Sweyn began to remonstrate, but the Earl cut him short.
“If the Norman say that he has been deceived in Harold, never so shall say the men of England. Leave me. I know not why, Haco, but in thy presence, at times, there is a glamour as strong as in the spells of Hilda. Go, dear boy; the fault is not in thee, but in the superstitious infirmities of a man who hath once lowered, or, it may be, too highly strained, his reason to the things of a haggard fancy. Go! and send to me my brother Gurth. I would have him alone of my House present at this solemn crisis of its fate.”
Haco bowed his head, and went.
In a few moments more, Gurth came in. To this pure and spotless spirit Harold had already related the events of his unhappy visit to the Norman; and he felt, as the young chief pressed his hand, and looked on him with his clear and loving eyes, as if Honour made palpable stood by his side.
Six of the ecclesiastics, most eminent for Church learning,—small as was that which they could boast, compared with the scholars of Normandy and the Papal States, but at least more intelligent and more free from mere formal monasticism than most of their Saxon contemporaries,—and six of the chiefs most renowned for experience in war or council, selected under the sagacious promptings of Alred, accompanied that prelate to the presence of the Earl.
“Close, thou! close! close! Gurth,” whispered Harold “for this is a confession against man’s pride, and sorely doth it shame;—so that I would have thy bold sinless heart beating near to mine.”
Then, leaning his arm upon his brother’s shoulder, and in a voice, the first tones of which, as betraying earnest emotion, irresistibly chained and affected his noble audience, Harold began his tale.