“Hilda!” said Judith slowly, “call me no longer by that name!  I am not thy mother; before men only do I call thee daughter.  Silence!” she exclaimed imperatively, as Hilda looked quickly up, doubting whether she heard aright.  “Silence! and listen!”

“I have loved thee truly, child, and have nurtured thee as a mother would! and thou art no stranger! the same blood runs in our veins!  Yes! thou art mine! for thy father was my brother.  Does not that give thee to me?  Hush! thou shalt hear the tale.”

Hilda’s were not the only ears that drank in every word of the following story.

“Twenty years ago what a demi-god was Haco!  He was a giant, but even men who feared him loved him.  Though brave and strong as Odin himself, his mind was gentle and kind as a maiden’s; first in council, in war, in manly sports, he ever had an open ear and a helping hand for the troubled and distressed.  He was adored, nay, worshipped, by all.  What wonder then that when he and the proud chief Algar courted the same maiden, he was preferred!  Thou knowest not, Hilda, the mysteries of a tender heart; may it be long indeed before thy heart is seared by human passion!” It was fortunate that darkness hid the burning blush which suffused Hilda’s face and neck at this pious wish.  Judith proceeded:—­“Thy father wedded and thou wast born.  He poured on thy infant form all the wealth of his great generous heart.  Algar nursed his revenge:  he dared not act openly, for our house was as noble as his own—­nay, nobler!” she added haughtily, “but he bided his time.  Haco’s tower was near the shore, a pleasant, lovely, spot.  One night the news was borne to me that enemies had landed, and that his dwelling was in flames; I hurried towards it; I was stopped by armed warriors; Algar’s men, they said, had hastened to the rescue; the chief had ordered that no women should leave their homes.  It was in vain that I urged and protested.  When at last I reached the spot the struggle was said to be over, and the assailants, beaten off, were declared to have sailed away.  Algar himself came to me with well-assumed grief.  He had arrived, he swore, too late to save.  The tower had been fired whilst the inmates slept, the wife and child had perished; Haco, after performing incredible feats of valour, had fallen before the strokes of numerous foes; when he himself had come with a chosen band, while sending the rest of his forces to other posts which the unforeseen danger might threaten, nothing remained but to avenge the murder.  Why recount the caitiffs lies?  Where were the signs of landing, of hasty re-embarkation?  Where were the dead of the strangers?  Thrown into the sea! he said; it was foul falsehood, and fouler treachery.  I found your father’s body; he was smitten and gashed, but nobler than the living.  I touched him and was silent.  I knew what none others guessed.  I arose.  The spirits of the Gods came over me, and I cursed his slayer.  Never had I spoken so fiercely; men stood and wondered.  I prayed the Gods to make the wretch who had caused my darling’s death miserable by land and by sea, by day and by night, in the field and at the board, loathed by his friends, and scorned by his foes.  The Gods heard my imprecations; as I turned my eyes skywards they looked from their clouds, wrath kindling on their brows, and Algar’s face was white with fear, his hand trembled and his knee shook.