d him rode
the pride of the Norman nobility.

On the hill-side before them stood Harold and his stout body-guard,
trenches and earthworks in their front, their shields locked into a wall
of iron. In the first line stood the men of Kent, this being their
ancient privilege. Behind them were ranged the burgesses of London, the
royal standard in their midst. Beside the standard stood Harold himself,
his brothers Gurth and Leofwin by his side, and around them a group of
England's noblest thanes and warriors.

On came the Norman column. Steadily awaited them the English phalanx.
"Dieu aide!" or "God is our help!" shouted the assailing knights.
"Christ's rood! the holy rood!" roared back the English warriors. Nearer
they came, till they looked in each other's eyes, and the battle was
ready to begin.

And now, from the van of the Norman host, rode a man of renown, the
minstrel Taillefer. A gigantic man he was, singer, juggler, and champion
combined. As he rode fearlessly forward he chanted in a loud voice the
ancient "Song of Roland," flinging his sword in the air with one hand as
he sang, and catching it as it fell with the other. As he sang, the
Normans took up the refrain of his song, or shouted their battle cry of
"Dieu aide."

Onward he rode, thrusting his blade through the body of the first
Englishman he met. The second he encountered was flung wounded to the
ground. With the third the "Song of Roland" ended; the giant minstrel
was hurled from his horse pierced with a mortal wound. He had sung his
last song. He crossed himself and was at rest.

On came the Normans, the band of knights led by William assailing
Harold's centre, the mercenary host of French and Bretons attacking his
flanks. The Norman foot led the van, seeking to force a passage across
the English stockade. "Out, out!" fiercely shouted the men of Kent, as
they plied axe and javelin with busy hands. The footmen were driven
back. The Norman horse in turn were repulsed. Again and again the duke
rallied and led his knights to the fatal stockade; again and again he
and his men were driven back. The blood of the Norseman in his veins
burned with all the old Viking battle-thirst. The headlong valor which
he had often shown on Norman plains now impelled him relentlessly
forward. Yet his coolness and readiness never forsook him. The course of
the battle ever lay before his eyes, its reins in his grasp. At one time
during the combat the choicest of the Norman ca