“Tremble,” said the son of Osslah, with a loud voice. “Hark to the gods, who threaten thee with death, that thou hast dared to lift thine arm against their servant!”
As he spoke, the thunder rolled above; for one of the frequent storms of the early summer was about to break.
The spear dropped from the prince’s hand; he sat down and cast his eyes on the ground.
“Wilt thou do the bidding of the stars, and reign?” said Morven.
“I will!” cried Siror, with a desperate voice.
“This evening, then, when the sun sets, thou wilt lead her hither, alone; I may not attend thee. Now, let us pile the stones.”
Silently the huntsman bent his vast strength to the fragments of rock that Morven pointed to him, and they built the altar, and went their way.
And beautiful is the dying of the great sum when the last song of the birds fades into the lap of silence; when the islands of the cloud are bathed in light, and the first star springs up over the grave of day.
“Whither leadest thou my steps, my brother?” said Gina; “and why doth thy lip quiver? and why dost thou tarn away thy face?”
“Is not the forest beautiful; doth it not tempt us forth, my sister?”