At this the old priest fairly roared with impotent rage.
"Avast!" he cried. "'Tis this Christ hath done it all! Why do ye come to the Vikings' gods until ye have renounced Him? How can I summon spirits from Valhalla to your help, or send the wicca-hag skirling on the wind to ply her sorceries on Oswald, that his heart may be turned to ye, if ye are Christian?"
Then, dropping into a gentler and more persuasive tone, as he saw Ethel fairly cowering in terror before him, he said,—
"Go, Viking's daughter. Ye know my heart is sore for ye and for my race; but it must be either Odin or Jesus. Go renounce this Christ, and then I can help ye. Nay, nay! keep the dagger, for it hath wondrous virtue in it. It was with this dagger that Thore Hund slew the Christian renegade Olaf Haraldssen on the bloody field of Sticklarstad, and Odin proved himself a mightier than this Christ. It shall be so again, for the Viking race shall be a terror to all lands. Why should ye be fearful and afraid? Why should ye hesitate and shrink at this act of revenge? Surely ye have suffered enough at the hands of this accursed race. How can ye be so scrupulous, when ye think of the vengeance ye owe these Norman tyrants and usurpers for a father and brother slaughtered, for your sadness, and your homelessness? Think of the love this Norman woman hath stolen from ye. Nurse these thoughts, and be courageous, Viking's daughter."
Ethel slowly climbed from the weird retreat, where for generations these savage priests of Thor and Odin had exercised a dread and mystic sway over the descendants of the Norsemen conquerors, who in past times had swooped down on Northumbria, peopling it with rough and hardy warriors; and still the barbarous rites and crude beliefs held extensive sway, in spite of the leavening influences of the Saxons' Christ. Ethel had entered this nature's temple with dim hopes that by some exercise of supernatural powers the heart of Oswald might be influenced so as to turn to her; and if not this, that she might know the worst. Alas! the sad heart and the wounded love had met with no amelioration of its sadness and despair; but the dormant passion and frenzy which ran in her Viking blood had been stirred in its lethargy into a madness of revenge, the extent and power of which she had never felt before.
"What is to be the end of this?" she said to herself, as she sped over the wild hills. "Either I must conquer or be crushed. There is no middle course; either it is hell or heaven. I cannot cast off or change my love; that is given unreservedly and beyond recall. This Viking, Sigurd, is a warrior true as steel, and his love is as sincere and true. But what of that? To wed him were a suggestion most gross, and impossible as gross. How could I crouch beside the ingle of an untamed Viking husband, and in all unloveliness mother a rude progeny, and blur out, in the grossness and savagery of it, the vision of better things, and of the nobler love I have seen? Question. Shall I tamely submit to the usurpation of a love that might have been mine, but of which I have been despoiled by a Norman woman? Or shall I fling to the winds my Christian trammels and scruples, and, Viking-like, take the Viking's remedy?" and she drew forth from her bosom the unlovely and murderous weapon the priest had given her. "The priest said this was my only remedy. 'Tis a grim alternative. But why should I suffer this for a love too readily given? I never told my heart to dote on Oswald. 'Twas a wild freak of affection I could not bridle; and I cannot undo it now, so that change is impossible. It was without effort of mine, also, that he has filled my eye so fully that I cannot see another. Shall I tamely suffer this eclipse at the hands of this southern woman? This priest tells me what a Viking woman would do, and surely, if foul wrongs call for fierce revenge, then I should not timidly shrink from this avenging act. Madness and despair nerve my arm and steel my heart, and I will act as a Viking woman would act!"
But just at that moment, as the fierce spirit of revenge assumed the mastery, there flitted before her mental vision a scene of long ago, when, as a child, she knelt at her mother's knee, and heard the wondrous story of the Redeemer's mercifulness and love for his enemies. The revulsion of feeling was instant and overpowering. Stretching her clenched hands heavenwards, she shrieked, in an agony of prayer, "Jesu, God of mercy, help!"
Overwrought nature could bear no more, and she sank in insensibility to the ground, her fair countenance convulsed with agony. Speedily, however, the shadows of despair gave place to a placid smile of sweet content. Again she was a child, and her mother's form was bending over her, but wondrously ennobled and beautified; and she spoke words of comfort and of hope. "Daughter, be of good courage, and remember the words of the Master that I taught you: 'Come unto Me all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest'; 'Lo, I am with you always, even unto the end of the world.'" Then, with a smile angelic in its sweetness, the heavenly vision faded away.
Slowly Ethel staggered to her feet, for her physical strength was exhausted; but the look of blank despair had passed away, and her countenance was transfigured until it shone like the countenance of a saint of God. And drawing the dagger from her bosom she hurled it over a precipice, shuddering as she did so. Then she slowly turned her footsteps towards the fortress on the hill.