But the fire itself was invisible to Winfried and his companions.  A great throng of people were gathered around it in a half-circle, their backs to the open glade, their faces towards the oak.  Seen against that glowing background, it was but the silhouette of a crowd, vague, black, formless, mysterious.

The travellers paused for a moment at the edge of the thicket, and took counsel together.

“It is the assembly of the tribe,” said one of the foresters, “the great night of the council.  I heard of it three days ago, as we passed through one of the villages.  All who swear by the old gods have been summoned.  They will sacrifice a steed to the god of war, and drink blood, and eat horse-flesh to make them strong.  It will be at the peril of our lives if we approach them.  At least we must hide the cross, if we would escape death.”

“Hide me no cross,” cried Winfried, lifting his staff, “for I have come to show it, and to make these blind folk see its power.  There is more to be done here to-night than the slaying of a steed, and a greater evil to be stayed than the shameful eating of meat sacrificed to idols.  I have seen it in a dream.  Here the cross must stand and be our rede.”

At his command the sledge was left in the border of the wood, with two of the men to guard it, and the rest of the company moved forward across the open ground.  They approached unnoticed, for all the multitude were looking intently towards the fire at the foot of the oak.

Then Winfried’s voice rang out, “Hail, ye sons of the forest!  A stranger claims the warmth of your fire in the winter night.”

Swiftly, and as with a single motion, a thousand eyes were bent upon the speaker.  The semicircle opened silently in the middle; Winfried entered with his followers; it closed again behind them.

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.

“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.”