The sun was sinking. The battle was not yet decided. For nine hours it
had raged. Dead bodies by thousands clogged the field. The living fought
from a platform of the dead. At length, as the sun was nearing the
horizon, Duke William brought up his archers and bade them pour their
arrows upon the dense masses crowded around the standard of the English
king. He ordered them to shoot into the air, that the descending shafts
might fall upon the faces of the foe.

Victory followed the flight of those plumed shafts. As the sun went down
one of them pierced Harold's right eye. When they saw him fall the
Normans rushed like a torrent forward, and a desperate conflict ensued
over the fallen king. The Saxon standard still waved over the serried
English ranks. Robert Fitz Ernest, a Norman knight, fought his way to
the staff. His outstretched hand had nearly grasped it when an English
battle-axe laid him low. Twenty knights, grouped in mass, followed him
through the English phalanx. Down they went till ten of them lay
stretched in death. The other ten reached the spot, tore down the
English flag, and in a few minutes more the consecrated banner of
Normandy was flying in its stead.

The conflict was at an end. As darkness came the surviving English fled
into the woods in their rear. The Normans remained masters of the field.
Harold, the king, was dead, and all his brothers had fallen; Duke
William was England's lord. On the very spot where Harold had fallen the
conqueror pitched his tent, and as darkness settled over vanquished
England he "sate down to eat and drink among the dead."

No braver fight had ever been made than that which Harold made for
England. The loss of the Normans had been enormous. On the day after the
battle the survivors of William's army were drawn up in line, and the