“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 pine-trees 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, against 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 profter. 
   Sheep will we slaughter,
   Steeds will we sacrifice;
   Bright blood shall bathe thee,
   O tree of Thunder,
   Life-floods shall lave thee,
   Strong wood of wonder. 
   Mighty, have mercy,
   Smite us no more,
   Spare us and save us,
   Spare us, Thor!  Thor!”

With two great shouts the song ended, and a 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 over his eyes like ashes quenching flame.  Then he lifted his face and spoke.