“None of these things will please the god.  More costly is the offering that shall cleanse your sin, more precious the crimson dew that shall send new life into this holy tree of blood.  Thor claims your dearest and your noblest gift.”

Hunrad moved nearer to the handful of children who stood watching the red mines in the fire and the swarms of spark-serpents darting upward.  They had heeded none of the priest’s words, and did not notice now that he approached them, so eager were they to see which fiery snake would go highest among the oak branches.  Foremost among them, and most intent on the pretty game, was a boy like a sunbeam, slender and quick, with blithe brown eyes and laughing lips.  The priest’s hand was laid upon his shoulder.  The boy turned and looked up in his face.

“Here,” said the old man, with his voice vibrating as when a thick rope is strained by a ship swinging from her moorings, “here is the chosen one, the eldest son of the Chief, the darling of the people.  Hearken, Bernhard, wilt thou go to Valhalla, where the heroes dwell with the gods, to bear a message to Thor?”

The boy answered, swift and clear: 

“Yes, priest, I will go if my father bids me.  Is it far away?  Shall I run quickly?  Must I take my bow and arrows for the wolves?”

The boy’s father, the Chieftain Gundhar, standing among his bearded warriors, drew his breath deep, and leaned so heavily on the handle of his spear that the wood cracked.  And his wife, Irma, bending forward from the ranks of women, pushed the golden hair from her forehead with one hand.  The other dragged at the silver chain about her neck until the rough links pierced her flesh, and the red drops fell unheeded on the snow of her breast.

A sigh passed through the crowd, like the murmur of the forest before the storm breaks.  Yet no one spoke save Hunrad: 

“Yes, my Prince, both bow and spear shalt thou have, for the way is long, and thou art a brave huntsman.  But in darkness thou must journey for a little space, and with eyes blindfolded.  Fearest thou?”

“Naught fear I,” said the boy, “neither darkness, nor the great bear, nor the were-wolf.  For I am Gundhar’s son, and the defender of my folk.”

Then the priest led the child in his raiment of lamb’s-wool to a broad stone in front of the fire.  He gave him his little bow tipped with silver, and his spear with shining head of steel.  He bound the child’s eyes with a white cloth, and bade him kneel beside the stone with his face to the east.  Unconsciously the wide arc of spectators drew inward toward the centre, as the ends of the bow draw together when the cord is stretched.  Winfried moved noiselessly until he stood close behind the priest.

The old man stooped to lift a black hammer of stone from the ground,—­the sacred hammer of the god Thor.  Summoning all the strength of his withered arms, he swung it high in the air.  It poised for an instant above the child’s fair head—­then turned to fall.