it clove into the rampart of shields; and King Harold's battle-axe was
the first that shivered that wall of steel; his step the first that
strode into the innermost circle that guarded the Ravager of the
World.

Then forth, from under the shade of that great flag, came, himself
also on foot, Harold Hardrada: shouting and chaunting, he leapt with
long strides into the thick of the onslaught. He had flung away his
shield, and swaying with both hands his enormous sword, he hewed down
man after man till space grew clear before him; and the English,
recoiling in awe before an image of height and strength that seemed
superhuman, left but one form standing firm, and in front, to oppose
his way.

At that moment the whole strife seemed not to belong to an age
comparatively modern, it took a character of remotest eld; and Thor
and Odin seemed to have returned to the earth. Behind this towering
and Titan warrior, their wild hair streaming long under their helms,
came his Scalds, all singing their hymns, drunk with the madness of
battle. And the Ravager of the World tossed and flapped as it
followed, so that the vast raven depicted on its folds seemed horrid
with life. And calm and alone, his eye watchful, his axe lifted, his
foot ready for rush or for spring--but firm as an oak against flight--
stood the Last of the Saxon Kings.

Down bounded Hardrada, and down shore his sword; King Harold's shield
was cloven in two, and the force of the blow brought himself to his
knee. But, as swift as the flash of that sword, he sprang to his
feet; and while Hardrada still bowed his head, not recovered from the
force of his blow, the axe of the Saxon came so full on his helmet,