The withered leaves on the oak rustled and whispered overhead.  The fire flared and sank again.  The angry voices clashed against each other and fell like opposing waves.  Then the chieftain Gundhar struck the earth with his spear and gave his decision.

“All have spoken, but none are agreed.  There is no voice of the council.  Keep silence now, and let the stranger speak.  His words shall give us judgment, whether he is to live or to die.”

Winfried lifted himself high upon the altar, drew a roll of parchment from his bosom, and began to read.

“A letter from the great Bishop of Rome, who sits on a golden throne, to the people of the forest, Hessians and Thuringians, Franks and Saxons. In nomine Domini, sanctae et individuae trinitatis, amen!"

A murmur of awe ran through the crowd.  “It is the sacred tongue of the Romans:  the tongue that is heard and understood by the wise men of every land.  There is magic in it.  Listen!”

Winfried went on to read the letter, translating it into the speech of the people.

“’We have sent unto you our Brother Boniface, and appointed him your bishop, that he may teach you the only true faith, and baptize you, and lead you back from the ways of error to the path of salvation.  Hearken to him in all things like a father.  Bow your hearts to his teaching.  He comes not for earthly gain, but for the gain of your souls.  Depart from evil works.  Worship not the false gods, for they are devils.  Offer no more bloody sacrifices, nor eat the flesh of horses, but do as our Brother Boniface commands you.  Build a house for him that he may dwell among you, and a church where you may offer your prayers to the only living God, the Almighty King of Heaven.’”

It was a splendid message:  proud, strong, peaceful, loving.  The dignity of the words imposed mightily upon the hearts of the people.  They were quieted as men who have listened to a lofty strain of music.

“Tell us, then,” said Gundhar, “what is the word that thou bringest to us from the Almighty.  What is thy counsel for the tribes of the woodland on this night of sacrifice?”

“This is the word, and this is the counsel,” answered Winfried.  “Not a drop of blood shall fall to-night, save that which pity has drawn from the breast of your princess, in love for her child.  Not a life shall be blotted out in the darkness tonight; but the great shadow of the tree which hides you from the light of heaven shall be swept away.  For this is the birth-night of the white Christ, son of the All-Father, and Saviour of mankind.  Fairer is He than Baldur the Beautiful, greater than Odin the Wise, kinder than Freya the Good.  Since He has come to earth the bloody sacrifices must cease.  The dark Thor, on whom you vainly call, is dead.  Deep in the shades of Niffelheim he is lost forever.  His power in the world is broken.  Will you serve a helpless god?  See, my brothers, you call this tree his oak.  Does he dwell here?  Does he protect it?”