Harold : the Last of the Saxon Kings — Complete by Lytton (rm book recommendations .TXT) 📕

form. But so indefinite was the outline to Harold’s eye, that gazing on it steadily, and stilling with strong effort his loud heart, he knew not whether it was a phantom or a vapour that he beheld.

The Vala paused, leaning on her staff, and gazing in awe on the glowing stone, while the Earl, with his arms folded on his broad breast, stood hushed and motionless. The sorceress recommenced:

“Mighty dead, I revere thee, Dim-shaped from the cloud, With the light of thy deeds For the web of thy shroud. As Odin consulted Mimir’s skull hollow-eyed, 182 Odin’s heir comes to seek In the Phantom a guide.”

As the Morthwyrtha ceased, the fire crackled loud, and from its flame flew one of the fragments of bark to the feet of the sorceress:—the runic letters all indented with sparks.

The sorceress uttered a loud cry, which, despite his courage and his natural strong sense, thrilled through the Earl’s heart to his marrow and bones, so appalling was it with wrath and terror; and while she gazed aghast on the blazing letters, she burst forth:

“No warrior art thou, And no child of the tomb; I know thee, and shudder, Great Asa of Doom. Thou constrainest my lips And thou crushest my spell; Bright Son of the Giant Dark Father of Hell!” 183

The whole form of the Morthwyrtha then became convulsed and agitated, as if with the tempest of frenzy; the foam gathered to her lips, and her voice rang forth like a shriek:

“In the Iron Wood rages The Weaver of Harm, The giant Blood-drinker Hag-born MANAGARM. 184 A keel nears the shoal; From the slime and the mud Crawl the newt and the adder, The spawn the of flood. Thou stand’st on the rock Where the dreamer beheld thee. O soul, spread thy wings, Ere the glamour hath spell’d thee. O, dread is the tempter, And strong the control; But conquer’d the tempter, If firm be the soul”

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, and never Crown and brow shall Force dissever: Till the dead men unforgiving Loose the war steeds on the living; Till a sun whose race is ending Sees the rival stars contending; Where the dead men, unforgiving, Wheel the war steeds round the living. Where thou wendest, wend unfearing; Every step thy throne is nearing. Never shall thy House decay, Nor thy sceptre pass away, While the Saxon name endureth In the land thy throne secureth; Saxon name and throne together, Leaf and root, shall wax and wither; So the measure shall be meted, And the circle close completed. Art thou answer’d, dauntless seeker? Go, thy bark shall ride the breaker, Every billow high and higher, Waft thee up to thy desire; And a force beyond thine own, Drift and strand thee on the throne. When the Wolf Month, grim and still, Piles the snow-mass on the hill, In the white air sharp and bitter Shall thy kingly sceptre glitter: When the ice-gems barb the bough Shall the jewels clasp thy brow; Winter-wind, the oak uprending, With the altar-anthem blending; Wind shall howl, and mone shall sing, ‘Hail to Harold—HAIL THE KING!’”

An exultation that seemed more than human, so intense it was and so solemn,—thrilled in the voice which thus closed predictions that seemed signally to belie the more vague and menacing warnings with which the dreary incantation had commenced. The Morthwyrtha stood erect and stately, still gazing on the pale blue flame that rose from the burial stone, still slowly the flame waned and paled, and at last died with a sudden flicker, leaving the grey tomb standing forth all weatherworn and desolate, while a wind rose from the north and sighed through the roofless columns. Then as the light over the grave expired, Hilda gave a deep sigh, and fell to the ground senseless.

Harold lifted his eyes towards the stars and murmured: