“How fares it, dear father?” asked Harold.
Godwin smiled fondly, and tried to speak, but his voice died in a convulsive rattle. Lifting himself up, however, with an effort, he pressed tenderly the hand that clasped his own, leant his head on Harold’s breast, and so gave up the ghost.
When Harold was at last aware that the struggle was over, he laid the grey head gently on the pillow; he closed the eyes, and kissed the lips, and knelt down and prayed. Then, seating himself at a little distance, he covered his face with his mantle.
At this time his brother Gurth, who had chiefly shared watch with Harold,—for Tostig, foreseeing his father’s death, was busy soliciting thegn and earl to support his own claims to the earldom about to be vacant; and Leofwine had gone to London on the previous day to summon Githa who was hourly expected—Gurth, I say, entered the room on tiptoe, and seeing his brother’s attitude, guessed that all was over. He passed on to the table, took up the lamp, and looked long on his father’s face. That strange smile of the dead, common alike to innocent and guilty, had already settled on the serene lips; and that no less strange transformation from age to youth, when the wrinkles vanish, and the features come out clear and sharp from the hollows of care and years, had already begun. And the old man seemed sleeping in his prime.
So Gurth kissed the dead, as Harold had done before him, and came up and sate himself by his brother’s feet, and rested his head on Harold’s knee; nor would he speak till, appalled by the long silence of the Earl, he drew away the mantle from his brother’s face with a gentle hand, and the large tears were rolling down Harold’s cheeks.
“Be soothed, my brother,” said Gurth; “our father has lived for glory, his age was prosperous, and his years more than those which the Psalmist allots to man. Come and look on his face, Harold, its calm will comfort thee.”
Harold obeyed the hand that led him like a child; in passing towards the bed, his eye fell upon the cyst which Hilda had given to the old Earl, and a chill shot through his veins.
“Gurth,” said he, “is not this the morning of the sixth day in which we have been at the King’s Court?”
“It is the morning of the sixth day.”
Then Harold took forth the key which Hilda had given him, and unlocked the cyst, and there lay the white winding-sheet of the dead, and a scroll. Harold took the scroll, and bent over it, reading by the mingled light of the lamp and the dawn: