ALDWYTH. Stand by me then, and look upon my face, Not on the comet. _Enter_ MORCAR. Brother! why so pale? MORCAR. It glares in heaven, it flares upon the Thames, The people are as thick as bees below, They hum like bees,--they cannot speak--for awe; Look to the skies, then to the river, strike Their hearts, and hold their babies up to it. I think that they would Molochize them too, To have the heavens clear. ALDWYTH. They fright not me. _Enter_ LEOFWIN, _after him_ GURTH. Ask thou Lord Leofwin what he thinks of this! MORCAR. Lord Leofwin, dost thou believe, that these Three rods of blood-red fire up yonder mean The doom of England and the wrath of Heaven? BISHOP OF LONDON (_passing_). Did ye not cast with bestial violence Our holy Norman bishops down from all Their thrones in England? I alone remain. Why should not Heaven be wroth? LEOFWIN. With us, or thee? BISHOP OF LONDON. Did ye not outlaw your archbishop Robert, Robert of Jumieges--well-nigh murder him too? Is there no reason for the wrath of Heaven? LEOFWIN. Why then the wrath of Heaven hath three tails, The devil only one. [_Exit_ BISHOP OF LONDON. _Enter_ ARCHBISHOP STIGAND. Ask _our_ Archbishop. Stigand should know the purposes of Heaven. STIGAND. Not I. I cannot read the face of heaven; Perhaps our vines will grow the better for it. LEOFWIN (_laughing_). He can but read the king's face on his coins. STIGAND. Ay, ay, young lord, _there_ the king's face is power. GURTH. O father, mock not at a public fear, But tell us, is this pendent hell in heaven A harm to England? STIGAND. Ask it of King Edward! And he may tell thee, _I_ am a harm to England. Old uncanonical Stigand--ask of _me_ Who had my pallium from an Antipope! Not he the man--for in our windy world What's up is faith, what's down is heresy. Our friends, the Normans, holp to shake his chair. I have a Norman fever on me, son, And cannot answer sanely.... What it means? Ask our broad Earl. [_Pointing to_ HAROLD, _who enters_. HAROLD (_seeing_ GAMEL). Hail, Gamel, son of Orm! Albeit no rolling stone, my good friend Gamel, Thou hast rounded since we met. Thy life at home Is easier than mine here. Look! am I not Work-wan, flesh-fallen? GAMEL. Art thou sick, good Earl? HAROLD. Sick as an autumn swallow for a voyage, Sick for an idle week of hawk and hound Beyond the seas--a change! When camest thou hither? GAMEL. To-day, good Earl. HAROLD. Is the North quiet, Gamel? GAMEL. Nay, there be murmurs, for thy brother breaks us With over-taxing--quiet, ay, as yet-- Nothing as yet.