“Lo, as ye listen,” said Morven, calmly, “the river sweeps on. Haste, for the gods will have a victim, be it your prophet or your king.”
“Slave!” shouted Siror, and his spear left his hand, and far above the heads of the crowd sped hissing beside the dark form of Morven, and rent the trunk of the oak behind.
Then the people, wroth at the danger of their beloved seer, uttered a wild yell, and gathered round him with brandished swords, facing their chieftains and their king.
But at that instant, ere the war had broken forth among the tribe, the three warriors returned, and they bore Darvan on their shoulders, and laid him at the feet of the king, and they said tremblingly:
“Thus found we the elder in the centre of his own hall.”
And the people saw that Darvan was a corpse, and that the prediction of Morven was thus verified.
“So perish the enemies of Morven and the Stars!” cried the son of Osslah. And the people echoed the cry.
Then the fury of Siror was at its height, and waving his sword above his head, he plunged into the crowd:
“Thy blood, base-born, or mine.”
“So be it!” answered Morven, quailing not. “People, smite the blasphemer. Hark how the river pours down upon your children and your hearths. On, on, or ye perish!”