by
the shafts, the Anglo-Danes rushed forth at the heels of the Norman
swordsmen, and sweeping down to exterminate the archers, the breach that
they leave gapes wide.

"Forward," cries William, and he gallops towards the breach.

"Forward," cries Odo, "I see the hands of the holy saints in the air!
Forward! it is the Dead that wheel our war-steeds round the living!"

On rush the Norman knights. But Harold is already in the breach,
rallying around him hearts eager to replace the shattered breastworks.

"Close shields! Hold fast!" shouts his kingly voice. Before him were
the steeds of Bruse and Grantmesnil. At his breast their spears:--Haco
holds over the breast the shield. Swinging aloft with both hands his
axe, the spear of Grantmesnil is shivered in twain by the King's stroke.
Cloven to the skull rolls the steed of Bruse. Knight and steed roll on
the bloody sward.

But a blow from the sword of De Lacy has broken down the guardian shield
of Haco. The son of Sweyn is stricken to his knee. With lifted blades
and whirling maces the Norman knights charge through the breach.

"Look up, look up, and guard thy head," cries the fatal voice of Haco to
the King.

At that cry the King raises his flashing eyes. Why halts his stride? Why
drops the axe from his hand? As he raised his head, down came the
hissing death-shaft. It smote the lifted face; it crushed into the
dauntless eyeball. He reeled, he staggered, he fell back several yards,
at the foot of his gorgeous standard. With desperate hand he broke the
head of the shaft, and left the barb, quivering in the anguish. Gurth
knelt over him.

"Fight on," gasped the King, "conceal my death! Holy Crosse! England to
the rescue! woe-woe!"

Rallying himself a moment, he sprang to his feet, clenched his right
hand, and fell once more,--a corpse.

At the same moment a simultaneous rush of horsemen towards the standard
bore back a line of Saxons, and covered the body of the King with heaps
of the slain.

His helmet cloven in two, his face all streaming with blood, but still
calm in its ghastly hues, amidst the foremost of those slain, fell the
fated Haco. He fell with his head on the breast of Harold, kissed the
bloody cheek with bloody lips, groaned, and died.

Inspired by despair with superhuman strength, Gurth, striding over the
corpses of his kinsmen, opposed himself singly to the knights; and the
entire strength of the English remnant, coming round him