h and higher--there
the horse of the Apocalypse tramples the dead in their gore."

In great horror, William took the King, now gasping on his breast, in his
arms, and laid him on his bed, beneath its canopy of state, all blazoned
with the martlets and cross of his insignia. Slowly Edward came to
himself, with heavy sighs; and when at length he sate up and looked
round, it was with evident unconsciousness of what had passed across his
haggard and wandering spirit, for he said, with his usual drowsy
calmness:

"Thanks, Guillaume, bien aime, for rousing me from unseasoned sleep. How
fares it with thee?"

"Nay, how with thee, dear friend and king? thy dreams have been
troubled."

"Not so; I slept so heavily, methinks I could not have dreamed at all.
But thou art clad as for a journey--spur on thy heel, staff in thy hand!"

"Long since, O dear host, I sent Odo to tell thee of the ill news from
Normandy that compelled me to depart."

"I remember--I remember me now," said Edward, passing his pale womanly
fingers over his forehead. "The heathen rage against thee. Ah! my poor
brother, a crown is an awful head-gear. While yet time, why not both
seek some quiet convent, and put away these earthly cares?"

William smiled and shook his head. "Nay, holy Edward, from all I have
seen of convents, it is a dream to think that the monk's serge hides a
calmer breast than the warrior's mail, or the king's ermine. Now give me
thy benison, for I go."

He knelt as he spoke, and Edward bent his hands over his head, and
blessed him. Then, taking from his own neck a collar of zimmes (jewels
and uncut gems), of great price, the King threw it over the broad throat
bent before him, and rising, clapped his hands. A small door opened,
giving a glimpse of the oratory within, and a monk appeared.

"Father, have my behests been fulfilled?--hath Hugoline, my treasurer,
dispensed the gifts that I spoke of?"

"Verily yes; vault, coffer, and garde-robe--stall and meuse.-are well
nigh drained," answered the monk, with a sour look at the Norman, whose
native avarice gleamed in his dark eyes as he heard the answer.

"Thy train go not hence empty-handed," said Edward fondly. "Thy father's
halls sheltered the exile, and the exile forgets not the sole pleasure of
a king--the power to requite. We may never meet again, William,--age
creeps over me, and who will succeed to my thorny throne?" William
longed to answer,--to tell the hope that con