Indeed, the working man of that day, if not one of the absolute theowes or slaves, was, physically speaking, better off, perhaps, than he has ever since been in England, more especially if he appertained to some wealthy thegn of pure Saxon lineage, whose very title of lord came to him in his quality of dispenser of bread [26]; and these men had been ceorls under Harold, son of Godwin, now banished from the land.
"Open the gate, open quick, my merry men," said the gentle Edward (speaking in Saxon, though with a strong foreign accent), after he had recovered his seat, murmured a benediction, and crossed himself three times.

The men stirred not.
"No horse tramps the seeds we have sown for Harold the Earl to reap;" said the ceorl, doggedly, still seated on the gate.

And the group behind him gave a shout of applause.
Moved more than ever he had been known to be before, Edward spurred his steed up to the boor, and lifted his hand.

At that signal twenty swords flashed in the air behind, as the Norman nobles spurred to the place.
Putting back with one hand his fierce attendants, Edward shook the other at the Saxon.

"Knave, knave," he cried, "I would hurt you, if I could!" There was something in these words, fated to drift down into history, at once ludicrous and touching.