Whatever his thoughts, they were dark and sinister, as at length he
said, slowly:

"Is thine oath indeed given to thy mother, and doth she keep thee to
it?"

"Both, O King," answered Harold, briefly.

"Then I can gainsay thee not. And thou, Harold, art a man of this
living world; thou playest here the part of a centurion; thou sayst
'Come,' and men come--'Go,' and men move at thy will. Therefore thou
mayest well judge for thyself. I gainsay thee not, nor interfere
between man and his vow. But think not," continued the King in a more
solemn voice, and with increasing emotion, "think not that I will
charge my soul that I counselled or encouraged this errand. Yea, I
foresee that thy journey will lead but to great evil to England, and
sore grief or dire loss to thee." [175]

"How so, dear lord and King?" said Harold, startled by Edward's
unwonted earnestness, though deeming it but one of the visionary
chimeras habitual to the saint. "How so? William thy cousin hath
ever borne the name of one fair to friend, though fierce to foe. And
foul indeed his dishonour, if he could meditate harm to a man trusting
his faith, and sheltered by his own roof-tree."

"Harold, Harold," said Edward, impatiently, "I know William of old.
Nor is he so simple of mind, that he will cede aught for thy pleasure,
or even to my will, unless it bring some gain to himself [176]. I say
no more.--Thou art cautioned, and I leave the rest to Heaven."