His whole energy was given to his king and his country.  He had no great love for the monks; but he sought out the good and noble ones, put power into their hands, and gave them his support in ruling wisely and well.  The Abbey of Waltham had fallen into almost complete decay; he chose two humbly born men, renowned for the purity and benevolence of their lives, and gave to them the charge of selecting a new brotherhood there, which he largely endowed.

At last Edward passed quietly away, and with one accord Harold, the beloved, was chosen king and crowned.

Over the sea dwelt William, duke of the Normans, With no careless ear did he hear that Edward was dead Edward dead!  Edward!  Why, Edward, in a moment of friendship, had promised the English throne to him—­had even, William asserted, left it him in will; therefore his rage was great when he heard that Harold was not only proclaimed and crowned king, but was ready to defend his claim by battle sooner than yield.  William was a man of power and iron will; he forced his reluctant Normans to listen to his complaint, equipped an army, and sailed for Britain.  On came the queer little ships of war, nearer and nearer to England’s white, free cliffs, and cast anchor in Pevensey Bay.

William, eager and impatient, sprang from his ship; but his foot slipping, he fell, to rise again with both his hands full of earth, which he showed to his scared soldiers in triumph, crying: 

“So do I grasp the earth of a new country.”

Meanwhile Harold had gathered his forces, and they were assembled on Senlac Hill, an advantageous position.  He himself was in the center, his brave brother Gurth at his right hand.

A general charge of the Norman foot opened the battle, which raged the whole day, victory now leaning to the English and now to the Normans.  There was a cry that the duke was killed.  “I live!” he shouted, “and by God’s help will conquer yet!” And tearing off his helmet he rushed into the thickest of the battle, and aimed right at the standard.  Round that standard the last sharp, long struggle took place.  Harold, Gurth, all the greatest who still survived, met there.  With his tremendous battle-ax the king did mighty slaughter, till, looking upward as he swung his ax with both hands, a Norman arrow pierced his eye, and he fell.

“Fight on!” he gasped.  “Conceal my death—­England to the rescue!” One instant he sprang to his feet, and then fell back—­lifeless.  One by one the other noble guardians fell around him, till only Gurth was left, brave chief and last man, with no thought of surrender, though all was gone and lost.

“Spare him! spare the brave!” shouted one; but the brave heart was already pierced, and he sank beside his king and brother.  So fell the last of the Saxon kings, and so arose the Norman race.