But the guest sat dumb and hearkened, staring
  at the brimming bowl,
While the lay with mighty wing-beats swept
  the darkness of his soul.

For the Christ who worketh wonders as of old,
  so e’en to-day
Sent his angel downward gliding on the ladder
  of the lay.

As the host his song had ended with a last
  resounding twang,
And within the harp’s dumb chambers
  murmurous echoes faintly rang,
Up then sprang the guest, and straightway
  downward rolled his garment dun—­
There stood Harold, the avenger, Burislav’s
  undaunted son.

High he loomed above the feasters in the
  torchlight dim and weird,
From his eyes hot tears were streaming,
  sparkling in his tawny beard;
Shining in his sea-blue mantle stood he, ’mid
  that wondering throng,
And each maiden thought him fairest, and each
  warrior vowed him strong.

Swift he bared his blade of battle, flung it
  quivering on the board: 
“Lo!” he cried, “I came to bid thee baleful
  greeting with my sword;
Thou hast dulled the edge that never shrank
  from battle’s fiercest test—­
Now I come, as comes a brother, swordless unto brother’s breast.

“With three hundred men I landed in the
  gloaming at thy shore—­
Dost thou hear their axes clanking on their
  shields without thy door? 
But a yearning woke within me my sweet sister’s
  voice to hear,
To behold her face and whisper words of
  warning in her ear.

“But I knew not of the new-born king, who
  holds the earth in sway,
And whose voice like fragrance blended in the
  soarings of thy lay. 
This my vengeance now, O brother:  foes as
  friends shall hands unite;
Teach me, thou, the wondrous tidings, and the
  law of Christ the white.”

Touched as by an angel’s glory, strangely
  shone Earl Sigurd’s face,
As he locked his foe, his brother, in a brotherly
  embrace;

And each warrior upward leaping, swung his
  horn with gold bedight: 
“Hail to Sigurd, hail to Harold, three times
  hail to Christ the white!”

A CHRISTMAS LEGEND

FLORENCE SCANNELL

It was Christmas Eve.  The night was very dark and the snow falling fast, as Hermann, the charcoal-burner, drew his cloak tighter around him, and the wind whistled fiercely through the trees of the Black Forest.  He had been to carry a load to a castle near, and was now hastening home to his little hut.  Although he worked very hard, he was poor, gaining barely enough for the wants of his wife and his four little children.  He was thinking of them, when he heard a faint wailing.  Guided by the sound, he groped about and found a little child, scantily clothed, shivering and sobbing by itself in the snow.

“Why, little one, have they left thee here all alone to face this cruel blast?”