Harold : the Last of the Saxon Kings Volume 12
Lytton, Edward Bulwer Lytton, Baron, 1803-1873
English
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Below is a summary of Harold : the Last of the Saxon Kings Volume 12
This eBook was produced by Tapio Riikonen
and David Widger, widger@cecomet.net
BOOK XII.
THE BATTLE OF HASTINGS
CHAPTER I.
In the heart of the forest land in which Hilda's abode was situated, a
gloomy pool reflected upon its stagnant waters the still shadows of
the autumnal foliage. As is common in ancient forests in the
neighbourhood of men's wants, the trees were dwarfed in height by
repeated loppings, and the boughs sprang from the hollow, gnarled
boles of pollard oaks and beeches; the trunks, vast in girth, and
covered with mosses and whitening canker-stains, or wreaths of ivy,
spoke of the most remote antiquity: but the boughs which their
lingering and mutilated life put forth, were either thin and feeble
with innumerable branchlets, or were centred on some solitary
distorted limb which the woodman's axe had spared. The trees thus
assumed all manner of crooked, deformed, fantastic shapes--all
betokening age, and all decay--all, in despite of the noiseless
solitude around, proclaiming the waste and ravages of man.
The time was that of the first watches of night, when the autumnal
moon was brightest and broadest. You might see, on the opposite side
of the pool, the antlers of the deer every now and then, moving
restlessly above the fern in which they had made their couch; and,
through the nearer glades, the hares and conies stealing forth to
sport or to feed; or the bat wheeling low, in chase of the forest
moth. From the thickest part of the copse came a slow human foot, and
Hilda, emerging, paused by the waters of the pool. That serene and
stony calm habitual to her features was gone; sorrow and passion had
seized the soul of the Vala, in the midst of its fancied security from
the troubles it presumed to foresee for others. The lines of the face
were deep and care-worn--age had come on with rapid strides--and the
light of the eye was vague and unsettled, as if the lofty reason
shook, terrified in its pride, at last.
"Alone, alone!" she murmured, half aloud: "yea, evermore alone! And
the grandchild I had reared to be the mother of kings--whose fate,
from the cradle, seemed linked with royalty and love--in whom,
watching and hoping for, in whom, loving and heeding, methought I
lived again the sweet human life--hath gone from my hearth--forsaken,
broken-hearted--withering down to the grave under the shade of the
barren cloister! Is mine heart, then, all a lie? Are the gods who
led Odin from the Scythian East but the juggling fiends whom the
craven Christian abhors? Lo! the Wine Month has come; a few nights
more, and the sun which all prophecy foretold should go down on the
union of the icing and the maid, shall bring round the appointed day:
yet Aldyth still lives, and Edith still withers; and War stands side
by side with the Church, between the betrothed and the altar. Verily,
verily, my spirit hath lost its power, and leaves me bowed, in the awe
of night, a feeble, aged, hopeless, childless woman!"
Tears of human weakness rolled down the Vala's cheeks. At that
moment, a laugh came from a thing that had seemed like the fallen
trunk of a tree, or a trough in which the herdsman waters his cattle,
so still, and shapeless, and undefined it had lain amongst the rank
weeds and night-shade and trailing creepers on the marge of the pool,
The laugh was low yet fearful to hear.
Slowly, the thing moved, and rose, and took the outline of a human
form; and the Prophetess beheld the witch whose sleep she had
disturbed by the Saxon's grave.
"Where is the banner?" said the witch, laying her hand on Hilda's arm,
and looking into her face with bleared and rheumy eyes, "where is the
banner thy handmaids were weaving for Harold the Earl? Why didst thou
lay aside that labour of love for Harold the King? Hie thee home, and
bid thy maidens ply all night at the work; make it potent with rune
and with spell, and with gums of the seid. Take the banner to Harold
the King as a marriage-gift; for the day of his birth shall be still
the day of his nuptials with Edith the Fair!"
Hilda gazed on the hideous form before her; and so had her soul fallen
from its arrogant pride of place, that instead of the scorn with which
so foul a pretender to the Great Art had before inspired the King-born
Prophetess, her veins tingled with credulous awe.
"Art thou a mortal like myself," she said after a pause, "or one of
those beings often seen by the shepherd in mist and rain, driving
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