ed to send its sounds down the ranks
of an army, rolled clear through the assemblage, though pitched little
above its ordinary key:--

"Fair is your feast, and bright your wine, Sir King and brother mine! But
I miss here what king and knight hold as the salt of the feast and the
perfume to the wine: the lay of the minstrel. Beshrew me, but both Saxon
and Norman are of kindred stock, and love to hear in hall and bower the
deeds of their northern fathers. Crave I therefore from your gleemen, or
harpers, some song of the olden time!"

A murmur of applause went through the Norman part of the assembly; the
Saxons looked up; and some of the more practised courtiers sighed
wearily, for they knew well what ditties alone were in favour with the
saintly Edward.

The low voice of the King in reply was not heard, but those habituated to
read his countenance in its very faint varieties of expression, might
have seen that it conveyed reproof; and its purport soon became
practically known, when a lugubrious prelude was heard from a quarter of
the hall, in which sate certain ghost-like musicians in white
robes--white as winding-sheets; and forthwith a dolorous and dirgelike
voice chaunted a long and most tedious recital of the miracles and
martyrdom of some early saint. So monotonous was the chaunt, that its
effect soon became visible in a general drowsiness. And when Edward, who
alone listened with attentive delight, turned towards the close to gather
sympathising admiration from his distinguished guests, he saw his nephew
yawning as if his jaw were dislocated--the Bishop of Bayeux, with his
well-ringed fingers interlaced and resting on his stomach, fast
asleep--Fitzosborne's half-shaven head balancing to and fro with many an
uneasy start--and, William, wide awake indeed, but with eyes fixed on
vacant space, and his soul far away from the gridiron to which (all other
saints be praised!) the saint of the ballad had at last happily arrived.

"A comforting and salutary recital, Count William," said the King.

The Duke started from his reverie, and bowed his head: then said, rather
abruptly, "Is not yon blazon that of King Alfred?"

"Yea. Wherefore?"

"Hem! Matilda of Flanders is in direct descent from Alfred: it is a name
and a line the Saxons yet honour!"

"Surely, yes; Alfred was a great man, and reformed the Psalmster,"
replied Edward.

The dirge ceased, but so benumbing had been its effect, that the torpor
it created