Both sides fought well, but the English pressed the Northmen hard, and drove them backward until they came to the river Derwent. Then they pressed them harder than ever; and the Northmen might have been forced into the river and drowned but for the bravery of one of their number, who kept the bridge with uplifted sword while the other soldiers passed over. At last an Englishman got under the bridge, and thrust upward with his spear through the planks; and wounded the brave Northman so that he died.
After this the Northmen fell into confusion. Hardrada and Tostig were both slain; and the remnant of their army fled in a panic to their ships.
The English marched towards York, where the king gave a great feast in honour of the victory.
The guests were seated round the board, drinking healths and singing, and Harold was thinking sorrowfully of the brother who had fallen, a traitor to his country, when of a sudden there was a loud knocking at the door.
'What is that?' inquired the startled guests.
The door was thrown open, and a weary, white-faced man appeared, all splashed and caked with mud.
'What ill news have you come to bring me?' asked Harold, while the others all left the board and crowded round to hear.
'My lord the king,' said the messenger, 'I am from Pevensey—the Normans have landed—Duke William—sixty thousand men—laying waste the country—ships, horses, men-at-arms——'
'Ha!' said Harold; 'he has chosen a time when the men who guard the coast are at their harvest; scattered over the country; and there is no one save myself to gather them together. How long is it since you left?'
'I hardly know,' replied the messenger; 'I took no count of time. I have galloped all the way—ridden day and night, changing horses where I could.'