With all his ferocity, his envy, his grudge to Harold, and his treason
to England, some rude notions of honour still lay confused in the
breast of the Saxon; and he answered stoutly:

"Imprudent was Harold's coming, and great his danger; but he came to
offer me peace and dominion. Had I betrayed him, I had not been his
foe, but his murderer!"

The Norse King smiled approvingly, and, turning to his chiefs, said
drily:

"That man was shorter than some of us, but he rode firm in his
stirrups."

And then this extraordinary person, who united in himself all the
types of an age that vanished for ever in his grave, and who is the
more interesting, as in him we see the race from which the Norman
sprang, began, in the rich full voice that pealed deep as an organ, to
chaunt his impromptu war-song. He halted in the midst, and with great
composure said:

"That verse is but ill-tuned: I must try a better." [247]

He passed his hand over his brow, mused an instant, and then, with his
fair face all illumined, he burst forth as inspired.

This time, air, rhythm, words, all so chimed in with his own
enthusiasm and that of his men, that the effect was inexpressible. It
was, indeed, like the charm of those runes which are said to have
maddened the Berserker with the frenzy of war.