Then, as they looked round the curving 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 place 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?” His voice was heavy and toneless as a muffled bell.

“You 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?”