As they journeyed on, and the fame of the Duke’s coming was sent abroad by the bodes or messengers, despatched to prepare the towns through which he was to pass for an arrival sooner than expected, the more highborn youths of England, especially those of the party counter to that of the banished Godwin, came round the ways to gaze upon that famous chief, who, from the age of fifteen, had wielded the most redoubtable sword of Christendom. And those youths wore the Norman garb: and in the towns, Norman counts held his stirrup to dismount, and Norman hosts spread the fastidious board; and when, at the eve of the next day, William saw the pennon of one of his own favourite chiefs waving in the van of armed men, that sallied forth from the towers of Dover (the key of the coast) he turned to the Lombard, still by his side, and said:
“Is not England part of Normandy already?”
And the Lombard answered:
“The fruit is well nigh ripe, and the first breeze will shake it to thy feet. Put not out thy hand too soon. Let the wind do its work.”
And the Duke made reply:
“As thou thinkest, so think I. And there is but one wind in the halls of heaven that can waft the fruit to the feet of another.”
“And that?” asked the Lombard.
“Is the wind that blows from the shores of Ireland, when it fills the sails of Harold, son of Godwin.”
“Thou fearest that man, and why?” asked the Lombard with interest.
And the Duke answered: