The Blue Flower [67]
ranks, they saw
that the hue of the assemblage was not black, but
white,--dazzling, radiant, solemn. White, the robes of the
women clustered together at the points of the wide crescent;
white, the glittering byrnies of the warriors standing in
close ranks; white, the fur mantles of the aged men who held
the central palace in the circle; white, with the shimmer of
silver ornaments and the purity of lamb's-wool, the raiment of
a little group of children who stood close by the fire; white,
with awe and fear, the faces of all who looked at them; and over
all the flickering, dancing radiance of the flames played and
glimmered like a faint, vanishing tinge of blood on snow.
The only figure untouched by the glow was the old priest,
Hunrad, with his long, spectral robe, flowing hair and beard,
and dead-pale face, who stood with his back to the fire and
advanced slowly to meet the strangers.
"Who are you? Whence come you, and what seek you here?"
"Your kinsman am I, of the German brotherhood," answered
Winfried, "and from England, beyond the sea, have I come to
bring you a greeting from that land, and a message from the
All-Father, whose servant I am."
"Welcome, then," said Hunrad, "welcome, kinsman, and be
silent; for what passes here is too high to wait, and must be
done before the moon crosses the middle heaven, unless,
indeed, thou hast some sign or token from the gods. Canst
thou work miracles?"
The question came sharply, as if a sudden gleam of hope
had flashed through the tangle of the old priest's mind. But
Winfried's voice sank lower and a cloud of disappointment
passed over his face as he replied: "Nay, miracles have I
never wrought, though I have heard of many; but the All-Father
has given no power to my hands save such as belongs to common
man."
"Stand still, then, thou common man," said Hunrad,
scornfully, "and behold what the gods have called us hither to
do. This night is the death-night of the sun-god, Baldur the
Beautiful, beloved of gods and men. This night is the hour of
darkness and the power of winter, of sacrifice and mighty
fear. This night the great Thor, the god of thunder and war,
to whom this oak is sacred, is grieved for the death of
Baldur, and angry with this people because they have forsaken
his worship. Long is it since an offering has been laid upon
his altar, long since the roots of his holy tree have been fed
with blood. Therefore its leaves have withered before the
time, and its boughs are heavy with death. Therefore the
Slavs`and the Wends have beaten us in battle. Therefore the
harvests have failed, and the wolf-hordes have ravaged the
folds, and the strength has departed from the bow, and the
wood of the spear has broken, and the wild boar has slain the
huntsman. Therefore the plague has fallen on our dwellings,
and the dead are more than the living in all our villages.
Answer me, ye people, are not these things true? "
A hoarse sound of approval ran through the circle. A
chant, in which the voices of the men and women blended, like
the shrill wind in the pinetrees above the rumbling thunder of
a waterfall, rose and fell in rude cadences.
O Thor, the Thunderer
Mighty and merciless,
Spare us from smiting!
Heave not thy hammer,
Angry, aginst us;
Plague not thy people.
Take from our treasure
Richest Of ransom.
Silver we send thee,
Jewels and javelins,
Goodliest garments,
All our possessions,
Priceless, we proffer.
Sheep will we slaughter,
Steeds will we sacrifice;
Bright blood shall bathe
O tree of Thunder,
Life-floods shall lave thee,
Strong wood of wonder.
Mighty, have mercy,
Smile as no more,
Spare us and save us,
Spare us, Thor! Thor!
With two great shouts the song ended, and stillness
followed so intense that the crackling of the fire was heard
distinctly. The old priest stood silent for a moment. His
shaggy brows swept down ever his
that the hue of the assemblage was not black, but
white,--dazzling, radiant, solemn. White, the robes of the
women clustered together at the points of the wide crescent;
white, the glittering byrnies of the warriors standing in
close ranks; white, the fur mantles of the aged men who held
the central palace in the circle; white, with the shimmer of
silver ornaments and the purity of lamb's-wool, the raiment of
a little group of children who stood close by the fire; white,
with awe and fear, the faces of all who looked at them; and over
all the flickering, dancing radiance of the flames played and
glimmered like a faint, vanishing tinge of blood on snow.
The only figure untouched by the glow was the old priest,
Hunrad, with his long, spectral robe, flowing hair and beard,
and dead-pale face, who stood with his back to the fire and
advanced slowly to meet the strangers.
"Who are you? Whence come you, and what seek you here?"
"Your kinsman am I, of the German brotherhood," answered
Winfried, "and from England, beyond the sea, have I come to
bring you a greeting from that land, and a message from the
All-Father, whose servant I am."
"Welcome, then," said Hunrad, "welcome, kinsman, and be
silent; for what passes here is too high to wait, and must be
done before the moon crosses the middle heaven, unless,
indeed, thou hast some sign or token from the gods. Canst
thou work miracles?"
The question came sharply, as if a sudden gleam of hope
had flashed through the tangle of the old priest's mind. But
Winfried's voice sank lower and a cloud of disappointment
passed over his face as he replied: "Nay, miracles have I
never wrought, though I have heard of many; but the All-Father
has given no power to my hands save such as belongs to common
man."
"Stand still, then, thou common man," said Hunrad,
scornfully, "and behold what the gods have called us hither to
do. This night is the death-night of the sun-god, Baldur the
Beautiful, beloved of gods and men. This night is the hour of
darkness and the power of winter, of sacrifice and mighty
fear. This night the great Thor, the god of thunder and war,
to whom this oak is sacred, is grieved for the death of
Baldur, and angry with this people because they have forsaken
his worship. Long is it since an offering has been laid upon
his altar, long since the roots of his holy tree have been fed
with blood. Therefore its leaves have withered before the
time, and its boughs are heavy with death. Therefore the
Slavs`and the Wends have beaten us in battle. Therefore the
harvests have failed, and the wolf-hordes have ravaged the
folds, and the strength has departed from the bow, and the
wood of the spear has broken, and the wild boar has slain the
huntsman. Therefore the plague has fallen on our dwellings,
and the dead are more than the living in all our villages.
Answer me, ye people, are not these things true? "
A hoarse sound of approval ran through the circle. A
chant, in which the voices of the men and women blended, like
the shrill wind in the pinetrees above the rumbling thunder of
a waterfall, rose and fell in rude cadences.
O Thor, the Thunderer
Mighty and merciless,
Spare us from smiting!
Heave not thy hammer,
Angry, aginst us;
Plague not thy people.
Take from our treasure
Richest Of ransom.
Silver we send thee,
Jewels and javelins,
Goodliest garments,
All our possessions,
Priceless, we proffer.
Sheep will we slaughter,
Steeds will we sacrifice;
Bright blood shall bathe
O tree of Thunder,
Life-floods shall lave thee,
Strong wood of wonder.
Mighty, have mercy,
Smile as no more,
Spare us and save us,
Spare us, Thor! Thor!
With two great shouts the song ended, and stillness
followed so intense that the crackling of the fire was heard
distinctly. The old priest stood silent for a moment. His
shaggy brows swept down ever his