A scornful laugh ran through the hall.
“And as we English are hospitable folk, and give any man, who asks, meat and board for one night, so one day’s welcome, methinks, will be all that the Count of the Normans will need at our English hands.”
Flushed with the joyous insolence of wine, the wassailers roared applause.
“Wherefore, this drink-hael to William of Rouen! And, to borrow a saying now in every man’s lips, and which, I think, our good scops will take care that our children’s children shall learn by heart,—since he covets our Saxon soil, ‘seven feet of land’ in frank pledge to him for ever!”
“Drink-hael to William the Norman!” shouted the revellers; and each man, with mocking formality, took off his cap, kissed his hand, and bowed [253]. “Drink-hael to William the Norman!” and the shout rolled from floor to roof—when, in the midst of the uproar, a man all bedabbled with dust and mire, rushed into the hall, rushed through the rows of the banqueters, rushed to the throne-chair of Harold, and cried aloud, “William the Norman is encamped on the shores of Sussex; and with the mightiest armament ever yet seen in England, is ravaging the land far and near!”
BOOK XII.
THE BATTLE OF HASTINGS [ [!-- H2 anchor --] ]