On the fatal hill, where the harvest of death had been thickest,
the Conqueror had caused his ducal pavilion to be reared, just
where Harold's standard had stood, and where the ruined altar of
Battle Abbey stands now. They had cleared away the bodies to make
room for the tent, but the ground was sodden with the blood of both
Englishman and Norman.

The sounds of revelry issued from beneath those gorgeous hangings,
and mocked the plaintive cries of the sufferers around.

"O Earth, Earth, such are thy rulers!" exclaimed a solemn voice.
"To gratify one man's ambition, this scene disfigures thy surface,
and mocks the image of God in man."

So spake a good monk, Norman although he was, who had followed
Geoffrey, Bishop of Coutances, into England as his chaplain,
selected because he could speak the English tongue--that warrior
prelate, who in conjunction with Odo of Bayeux blessed the
Conqueror's banners, and ministered in things sacred to the "pious"
invaders.

He wandered, this good brother, from one dying sinner to another,
absolving the penitent, and ministering to the parched lips of many
a sufferer. His own long brown garment was stiff at the extremities
with gore, but he heeded it not.

And at last, when he came to a heap of slain just where the Normans
had first hewn their way through the English entrenchments, after
the sham retreat had drawn away so many of their defenders, he was
attracted by the sound of convulsive weeping.