And now King Harold showed himself a man.  He turned at once from the North of England to the South.  He raised the folk of the Southern, as he had raised those of the Central and Northern shires; and in sixteen days—­after a march which in those times was a prodigious feat—­he was entrenched upon the fatal down which men called Heathfield then, and Senlac, but Battle to this day—­with William and his French Normans opposite him on Telham hill.

Then came the battle of Hastings.  You all know what befell upon that day; and how the old weapon was matched against the new—­the English axe against the Norman lance—­and beaten only because the English broke their ranks.  If you wish to refresh your memories, read the tale once more in Mr. Freeman’s “History of England,” or Professor Creasy’s “Fifteen Decisive Battles of the World,” or even, best of all, the late Lord Lytton’s splendid romance of “Harold.”  And when you go to England, go, as some of you may have gone already, to Battle; and there from off the Abbey grounds, or from Mountjoye behind, look down off what was then “The Heathy Field,” over the long slopes of green pasture and the rich hop-gardens, where were no hop-gardens then, and the flat tide-marshes winding between the wooded heights, towards the southern sea; and imagine for yourselves the feelings of an Englishman as he contemplates that broad green sloping lawn, on which was decided the destiny of his native land.  Here, right beneath, rode Taillefer up the slope before them all, singing the song of Roland, tossing his lance in air and catching it as it fell, with all the Norse berserker spirit of his ancestors flashing out in him, at the thought of one fair fight, and then purgatory, or Valhalla—­Taillefer perhaps preferred the latter.  Yonder on the left, in that copse where the red-ochre gully runs, is Sanguelac, the drain of blood, into which (as the Bayeux tapestry, woven by Matilda’s maids, still shows) the Norman knights fell, horse and man, till the gully was bridged with writhing bodies for those who rode after.  Here, where you stand—­the crest of the hill marks where it must have been—­was the stockade on which depended the fate of England.  Yonder, perhaps, stalked out one English squire or house-carle after another:  tall men with long-handled battle-axes—­one specially terrible, with a wooden helmet which no sword could pierce—­who hewed and hewed down knight on knight, till they themselves were borne to earth at last.  And here, among the trees and ruins of the garden, kept trim by those who know the treasure which they own, stood Harold’s two standards of the fighting-man and the dragon of Wessex.  And here, close by (for here, for many a century, stood the high altar of Battle Abbey, where monks sang masses for Harold’s soul), upon this very spot the Swan-neck found her hero-lover’s corpse.  “Ah,” says many an Englishman—­and who will blame him for it—­“how grand to have died beneath that standard on that day!”