There was little time for rest on the long march from London to Northumbria. As they trudged steadily onwards the men talked of the enemy whom they were soon to meet; the world-renowned Harold King of Norway, who had led his sea-kings to battle in many lands. 'Ay,' said one, 'I've heard that he fought black heathen folk in an outlandish place called Egypt. Be there such a place?' 'Egypt?' said another; 'that's the land parson preaches of in the church; there were Pharaohs there, and plagues.' 'Ay,' said the first; 'when King Hardrada was in that land he met something worse far than Pharaohs.' 'What was that?' asked the others. 'A fearsome beast that wore armour like a man. They call it a crocodile; and the country there is swarming with its like. Ten rows of teeth it had; and it came out of the river on its hind legs, and clawed at the king with iron gloves. They fought till sundown, they say, man and beast; and hard work had the king to slay the awesome creature.--He's a great fighter, is King Harold Hardrada.' The others marched in silence for a time, thinking about this fearful adventure of the Norwegian king. It was night, and the harvest moon was lighting up the long lines of men, with the king and his nobles on their tired horses at the head; the sleeping cottages, and the yellow shocks of corn standing ready cut in the fields on either side of the way. 'They do say,' began another man after a time, 'that the next enemy we shall have to fight will be the Duke of Normandy.' Weary as they were, all the hearers drew themselves up and squared their shoulders. 'Let him come,' they said. 'We will have no Norman for our king!' 'Ay,' another voice was saying, 'they do tell that the Pope has sent him a sacred banner, and calls it a holy war because our good king has broken an oath which he swore long ago, to help Duke William to be King of England.' 'We will have no foreigner to be our king,' repeated the men. 'Neither Pope nor earl can give away the crown of England.' They marched resolutely onward; and for a time nothing was heard save the steady tramp of feet and the breathing of the tired horses. Presently a halt was called, and the weary army lay down to snatch a few hours' sleep beneath the moon. They were on foot again by daybreak; and at length they came face to face with their foes. Near Stamford Bridge on the river Derwent, the Norwegian army was drawn up in a great circle, with the sunbeams glinting upon helmets and spear-points. High overhead floated the royal standard, a raven with outstretched wings, called by the Norwegians the land-waster. Riding at a short distance from the army was a knight in a bright blue mantle and a shining helmet. 'Who is that man?' asked Harold of one of his captains. 'It is the King of Norway,' replied the captain. Harold looked at the rider again. 'He is a tall and stately king,' he said; 'but his end is near.'