It was
mid-afternoon, and the field already seemed won. Yet when the sunset
hour came on that red October day the battle still raged. Harold had
lost his works of defence, yet his huscarls stood stubbornly around him,
and with unyielding obstinacy fought for their standard and their king.
The spot on which they made their last fight was that marked afterwards
by the high altar of Battle Abbey.
The sun was sinking. The battle was not yet decided. For nine hours it
had raged. Dead bodies by thousands clogged the field. The living fought
from a platform of the dead. At length, as the sun was nearing the
horizon, Duke William brought up his archers and bade them pour their
arrows upon the dense masses crowded around the standard of the English
king. He ordered them to shoot into the air, that the descending shafts
might fall upon the faces of the foe.
Victory followed the flight of those plumed shafts. As the sun went down
one of them pierced Harold's right eye. When they saw him fall the
Normans rushed like a torrent forward, and a desperate conflict ensued
over the fallen king. The Saxon standard still waved over the serried
English ranks. Robert Fitz Ernest, a Norman knight, fought his way to
the staff.
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