The Vala paused; and though it was evident that in
her frenzy she was still unconscious of Harold’s
presence, and seemed but to be the compelled and passive
voice to some Power, real or imaginary, beyond her
own existence, the proud man approached, and said:
“Firm shall be my soul, nor of the dangers which
beset it would I ask the dead or the living.
If plain answers to mortal sense can come from these
airy shadows or these mystic charms, reply, O interpreter
of fate; reply but to the questions I demand.
If I go to the court of the Norman, shall I return
unscathed?”
The Vala stood rigid as a shape of stone while Harold
thus spoke; and her voice came so low and strange
as if forced from her scarce-moving lips:
“Thou shalt return unscathed.”
“Shall the hostages of Godwin, my father, be
released”
“The hostages of Godwin shall be released,”
answered the same voice; “the hostages of Harold
be retained.”
“Wherefore hostage from me?”
“In pledge of alliance with the Norman.”
“Ha! then the Norman and Harold shall plight
friendship and troth?”
“Yes!” answered the Vala; but this time
a visible shudder passed over her rigid form.
“Two questions more, and I have done.
The Norman priests have the ear of the Roman Pontiff.
Shall my league with William the Norman avail to
win me my bride?”
“It will win thee the bride thou wouldst never
have wedded but for thy league with William the Norman.
Peace with thy questions, peace!” continued
the voice, trembling as with some fearful struggle;
“for it is the demon that forces my words, and
they wither my soul to speak them.”
“But one question more remains; shall I live
to wear the crown of England; and if so, when shall
I be a king?”
At these words the face of the Prophetess kindled,
the fire suddenly leapt up higher and brighter; again,
vivid sparks lighted the runes on the fragments of
bark that were shot from the flame; over these last
the Morthwyrtha bowed her head, and then, lifting it,
triumphantly burst once more into song.
“When the Wolf Month
[185], grim and still,
Heaps the snow-mass
on the hill;
When, through white
air, sharp and bitter,
Mocking sunbeams freeze
and glitter;
When the ice-gems, bright
and barbed,
Deck the boughs the
leaves had garbed
Then the measure shall
be meted,
And the circle be completed.
Cerdic’s race,
the Thor-descended,
In the Monk-king’s
tomb be ended;
And no Saxon brow but
thine
Wear the crown of Woden’s
line.
Where thou wendest,
wend unfearing,
Every step thy throne
is nearing.
Fraud may plot, and
force assail thee,—
Shall the soul thou
trusteth fail thee?
If it fail thee, scornful
hearer,
Still the throne shines
near and nearer.
Guile with guile oppose,
