HAROLD. To-night we will be merry--and to-morrow-- Juggler and bastard--bastard--he hates that most-- William the tanner's bastard! Would he heard me! O God, that I were in some wide, waste field With nothing but my battle-axe and him To spatter his brains! Why let earth rive, gulf in These cursed Normans--yea and mine own self. Cleave heaven, and send thy saints that I may say Ev'n to their faces, 'If ye side with William Ye are not noble.' How their pointed fingers Glared at me! Am I Harold, Harold, son Of our great Godwin? Lo! I touch mine arms, My limbs--they are not mine--they are a liar's-- I mean to be a liar--I am not bound-- Stigand shall give me absolution for it-- Did the chest move? did it move? I am utter craven! O Wulfnoth, Wulfnoth, brother, thou hast betray'd me! WULFNOTH. Forgive me, brother, I will live here and die. _Enter_ PAGE. PAGE. My lord! the Duke awaits thee at the banquet. HAROLD. Where they eat dead men's flesh, and drink their blood. PAGE. My lord-- HAROLD. I know your Norman cookery is so spiced, It masks all this. PAGE. My lord! thou art white as death. HAROLD. With looking on the dead. Am I so white? Thy Duke will seem the darker. Hence, I follow. [_Exeunt_. ACT III. SCENE I.--THE KING'S PALACE. LONDON. KING EDWARD _dying on a couch, and by him standing the_ QUEEN, HAROLD, ARCHBISHOP STIGAND, GURTH, LEOFWIN, ARCHBISHOP ALDRED, ALDWYTH, _and_ EDITH. STIGAND. Sleeping or dying there? If this be death, Then our great Council wait to crown thee King-- Come hither, I have a power; [_To_ HAROLD. They call me near, for I am close to thee And England--I, old shrivell'd Stigand, I, Dry as an old wood-fungus on a dead tree, I have a power! See here this little key about my neck! There lies a treasure buried down in Ely: If e'er the Norman grow too hard for thee, Ask me for this at thy most need, son Harold, At thy most need--not sooner. HAROLD. So I will. STIGAND. Red gold--a hundred purses--yea, and more! If thou canst make a wholesome use of these To chink against the Norman, I do believe My old crook'd spine would bud out two young wings To fly to heaven straight with. HAROLD. Thank thee, father! Thou art English, Edward too is English now, He hath clean repented of his Normanism. STIGAND. Ay, as the libertine repents who cannot Make done undone, when thro' his dying sense Shrills 'lost thro' thee.' They have built their castles here; Our priories are Norman; the Norman adder Hath bitten us; we are poison'd: our dear England Is demi-Norman. He!-- [_Pointing to_ KING EDWARD, _sleeping_. HAROLD. I would I were As holy and as passionless as he! That I might rest as calmly! Look at him-- The rosy face, and long down-silvering beard, The brows unwrinkled as a summer mere.--