So rude and home an assault in the presence of the King, who, though
personally he loved Harold in his lukewarm way, yet, like all weak
men, was not displeased to see the strong split their strength against
each other, brought the blood into Harold's cheek; but he answered
calmly:

"We live in a land, son of Leofric, in which birth, though not
disesteemed, gives of itself no power in council or camp. We belong
to a land where men are valued for what they are, not for what their
dead ancestors might have been. So has it been for ages in Saxon
England, where my fathers, through Godwin, as thou sayest, might have
been ceorls; and so, I have heard, it is in the land of the martial
Danes, where my fathers, through Githa, reigned on the thrones of the
North."

"Thou dost well," said Algar, gnawing his lip, "to shelter thyself on
the spindle side, but we Saxons of pure descent think little of your
kings of the North, pirates and idolaters, and eaters of horseflesh;
but enjoy what thou hast, and let Algar have his clue."

"It is for the King, not his servant, to answer the prayer of Algar,"
said Harold, withdrawing to the farther end of the room.

Algar's eye followed him, and observing that the King was fast sinking
into one of the fits of religious reverie in which he sought to be
inspired with a decision, whenever his mind was perplexed, he moved
with a light step to Harold, put his band on his shoulder, and
whispered:

"We do ill to quarrel with each other--I repent me of hot words--