slain man, crushing head-piece and head with a single blow. One gallant Norman, Robert FitzErneis, a near kinsman of Ralph of Tesson, died in a more daring exploit than all. He galloped, sword in hand, right towards the Standard itself. He sought for the honour of beating down the proud ensign beneath which the King of the English still kept his post. More than one Englishman died beneath his sword, but he was soon surrounded, and he fell beneath the axes of their comrades. On the morrow his body was found stretched in death at the foot of the Standard.

Other tales of the same sort, characteristic at least, whether verbally true or not, abound in the pages of the Norman poet. All bear witness to the enduring valour displayed on both sides, and to the fearful execution which was wrought by the national English weapon. But at last the effects of this sort of warfare began to tell on the English ranks. There could have been no greater trial than thus to bear up, hour after hour, in a struggle which was purely defensive. The strain, and the consequent weariness, must have been incomparably greater on their side than on that of their assailants. It may well have been in sheer relief from physical exhaustion that we read, now that there was no artificial defence between them and their enemies, of Englishmen rushing forward from their ranks, bounding like a stag, and thus finding opportunity for the personal encounters which I have been describing. Gradually, after so many brave warriors had fallen, resistance grew fainter; but still

even now the fate of the battle seemed doubtful. Many of the best and bravest of England had died, but not a man had fled; the Standard still waved as proudly as ever; the King still fought beneath it. While Harold lived, while the horse and his rider still fell beneath his axe, the heart of England failed not, the hope of England had not wholly passed away. Around the two-fold ensigns the war was still fiercely raging, and to that point every eye and every arm in the Norman host was directed.

The battle had raged ever since nine in the morning, and evening was now drawing in. New efforts, new devices, were needed to overcome the resistance of the English, diminished as were their numbers, and wearied as they were with the livelong toil of that awful day. The Duke ordered his archers to shoot up in the air, that their arrows might as it were, fall straight from heaven. The effect was immediate and fearful. No other device of the wily Duke that day did such frightful execution. Helmets were pierced; eyes were put out; men strove to guard their heads with their shields, and in so doing they were of course less able to wield their axes. And now the supreme moment drew near. There was one point of the hill at which the Norman bowmen were bidden specially to aim with their truest skill. As twilight was coming on, a mighty shower of arrows was launched on its deadly errand against the defenders of the Standard. There Harold still fought; his shield bristled with Norman shafts; but he was still unwounded and

4

unwearied. At last another arrow, more charged with destiny than its fellows, went still more truly to its mark. Falling like a bolt from heaven, it pierced the king's right eye; he clutched convulsively at the weapon, he broke off the shaft, his axe dropped from his hand, and he sank in agony at the foot of the Standard. The king was thus disabled, and the fate of the day was no longer doubtful. Twenty knights now bound themselves to lower or to bear off the ensigns which still rose as proudly as ever while Harold lay dying beneath them. But his comrades still fought; most of the twenty paid for their venture with their lives, but the survivors succeeded in their attempt. Harold's own Standard of the Fighting Man was beaten to the earth; the Golden Dragon, the ensign of Cuthred and Ælfred, was carried off in triumph. But Harold, though disabled, still breathed; four knights rushed upon him and despatched him with various wounds.

E. A. Freeman.

XL.

BERMUDAS1

WHERE the remote Bermudas ride
In th' ocean's bosom unespied,
From a small boat that rowed along,
The listening winds received this song.

"What should we do but sing His praise! ·
That led us through the watery maze,
Unto an isle so long unknown,
And yet far kinder than our own.
Where He the huge sea-monsters wracks,
That lift the deep upon their backs;
He lands us on a grassy stage,
Safe from the storms' and prelates' rage.
He gave us this eternal spring,
Which here enamels everything;
And sends the fowls to us in care,
On daily visits through the air.
He hangs in shades the orange bright,
Like golden lamps in a green night;
And does in the pomegranates close
Jewels more rich than Ormuz 2 shows.
He makes the figs our mouths to meet,
And throws the melons at our feet;
But apples, plants of such a price,
No tree could ever bear them twice.
With cedars chosen by His hand
From Lebanon, Hę stores the land:

And makes the hollow seas that roar,
Proclaim the ambergris 3 on shore.
He cast (of which we rather boast)
The gospel's Pearl upon our coast :
And in these rocks, for us did frame
A temple, where to sound His name.
O let our voice His praise exalt,
Till it arrive at heaven's vault!
Which thence (perhaps) rebounding, may
Echo beyond the Mexic Bay."

Thus sang they in the English boat,
A holy and a cheerful note;

And all the way, to guide their chime,
With falling oars they kept the time.

A. Marvell,

XLI.

SPANISH BLOODHOUNDS AND ENGLISH MASTIFFS.*

AND now, while the mastiffs of England1 and the bloodhounds of Spain are nearing and nearing over the rolling surges, thirsting for each other's blood, let us spend a few minutes at least in looking at them both, and considering the causes which in those days enabled the English to face and conquer armaments immensely superior in size and number of ships, and to boast, that in the whole Spanish war, but one Queen's ship, the Revenge, and (if Į From Westward IIo!