And Siror fell, pierced by five hundred spears.
“Smite! smite!” cried Morven, as the chiefs of the royal house gathered round the king.
And the clash of swords, and the gleam of spears, and the cries of the dying, and the yell of the trampling people, mingled with the roar of the elements, and the voices of the rushing wave.
Three hundred of the chiefs perished that night by the swords of their own tribe. And the last cry of the victors was, “Morven the prophet—MORVEN THE KING!”
And the son of Osslah, seeing the waves now spreading over the valley, led Orna his wife, and the men of Oestrich, their women and their children, to a high mount, where they waited the dawning sun.
But Orna sat apart and wept bitterly, for her brothers were no more, and her race had perished from the earth.
And Morven sought to comfort her in vain.
When the morning rose, they saw that the river had overspread the greater part of the city, and now stayed its course among the hollows of the vale.
Then Morven said to the people: “The star kings are avenged, and their wrath appeased. Tarry only here until the water have melted into the crevices of the soil.”
And on the fourth day they returned to the city, and no man dared to name another, save Morven, as the king.