Cedric went on with his story without noticing this interjectional
observation of his friend.
"The envoy of Tosti," he said, "moved up the hall, undismayed by the
frowning countenances of all around him, until he made his obeisance
before the throne of King Harold.
"'What terms,' he said, 'Lord King, hath thy brother Tosti to hope, if
he should lay down his arms, and crave peace at thy hands?' "'A brother's love,' cried the generous Harold, 'and the fair earldom of
Northumberland.' "'But should Tosti accept these terms,' continued the envoy, 'what lands
shall be assigned to his faithful ally, Hardrada, King of Norway?' "'Seven feet of English ground,' answered Harold, fiercely, 'or, as
Hardrada is said to be a giant, perhaps we may allow him twelve inches
more.' "The hall rung with acclamations, and cup and horn was filled to
the Norwegian, who should be speedily in possession of his English
territory."
"I could have pledged him with all my soul," said Athelstane, "for my
tongue cleaves to my palate."
"The baffled envoy," continued Cedric, pursuing with animation his tale,
though it interested not the listener, "retreated, to carry to Tosti and
his ally the ominous answer of his injured brother. It was then that
the distant towers of York, and the bloody streams of the Derwent,
[26] beheld that direful conflict, in which, after displaying the most
undaunted valour, the King of Norway, and Tosti, both fell, with ten
thousand of their bravest followers. Who would have thought that upon
the proud day when this battle was won, the very gale which waved the
Saxon banners in triumph, was filling the Norman sails, and impelling
them to the fatal shores of Sussex?--Who would have thought that Harold,
within a few brief days, would himself possess no more of his kingdom,
than the share which he allotted in his wrath to the Norwegian
invader?--Who would have thought that you, noble Athelstane--that you,
descended of Harold's blood, and that I, whose father was not the worst
defender of the Saxon crown, should be prisoners to a vile Norman, in
the very hall in which our ancestors held such high festival?"
"It is sad enough," replied Athelstane; "but I trust they will hold us
to a moderate ransom--At any rate it cannot be their purpose to starve
us outright; and yet, although it is high noon, I see no preparations
for serving dinner. Look up at the window, noble Cedric, and judge by
the sunbeams if it is not on the verge of noon."