He waved his hand, turned his steed, and rode off. The eye of Hardrada followed the horseman.
“And who,” he asked calmly, “is that man who spoke so well?” [246]
“King Harold!” answered Tostig, briefly.
“How!” cried the Norseman, reddening, “how was not that made known to me before? Never should he have gone back,—never told hereafter the doom of this day!”
With all his ferocity, his envy, his grudge to Harold, and his treason to England, some rude notions of honour still lay confused in the breast of the Saxon; and he answered stoutly:
“Imprudent was Harold’s coming, and great his danger; but he came to offer me peace and dominion. Had I betrayed him, I had not been his foe, but his murderer!”
The Norse King smiled approvingly, and, turning to his chiefs, said drily:
“That man was shorter than some of us, but he rode firm in his stirrups.”
And then this extraordinary person, who united in himself all the types of an age that vanished for ever in his grave, and who is the more interesting, as in him we see the race from which the Norman sprang, began, in the rich full voice that pealed deep as an organ, to chaunt his impromptu war-song. He halted in the midst, and with great composure said:
“That verse is but ill-tuned: I must try a better.” [247]