A small door opened, giving a glimpse of the oratory within, and a monk appeared.
"Father, have my behests been fulfilled ?--hath Hugoline, my treasurer, dispensed the gifts that I spoke of ?" "Verily yes; vault, coffer, and garde-robe--stall and meuse.-are well nigh drained," answered the monk, with a sour look at the Norman, whose native avarice gleamed in his dark eyes as he heard the answer.
"Thy train go not hence empty-handed," said Edward fondly.

"Thy father's halls sheltered the exile, and the exile forgets not the sole pleasure of a king--the power to requite.

We may never meet again, William,--age creeps over me, and who will succeed to my thorny throne ?" William longed to answer,--to tell the hope that consumed him,--to remind his cousin of the vague promise in their youth, that the Norman Count should succeed to that "thorny throne:" but the presence of the Saxon monk repelled him, nor was there in Edward's uneasy look much to allure him on.
"But peace," continued the King, "be between thine and mine, as between thee and me!" "Amen," said the Duke, "and I leave thee at least free from the proud rebels who so long disturbed thy reign.

This House of Godwin, thou wilt not again let it tower above thy palace ?" "Nay, the future is with God and his saints;" answered Edward, feebly.
"But Godwin is old--older than I, and bowed by many storms." "Ay, his sons are more to be dreaded and kept aloof--mostly Harold!" "Harold,--he was ever obedient, he alone of his kith; truly my soul mourns for Harold," said the King, sighing.
"The serpent's egg hatches but the serpent.

Keep thy heel on it," said William, sternly.
"Thou speakest well," said the irresolute prince, who never seemed three days or three minutes together in the same mind.