“O Alaran, if you will listen I will tell you—”
But Alaran was angered and would not listen. But he stood between her and Terig. “Let her be!” he said to Terig and Fritha. Alaran had fought the Heruli like the thunder god descending on that land. Moreover, he had planned warfare as Terig could not plan. Now he held before the folk their joining with the broad stream of the Goths and descending like the torrents after winter upon those famed, rich lands far to the south. Terig and Terig’s men gave Alaran what he would.
Alleda left the drinking, feasting, chanting, boasting throng in Terig’s hall and about the oak. She left the warrior-serving, laughing, triumphing women. She stole to the forest and to the glade by the church. “O my father!” she cried to Victorinus. “Christ is my Bridegroom! He is my All! You tell me that to keep sacred to Christ is man or woman’s Heaven and the service that they owe! You tell me that the blessed Paul was right when he said that to be virgin is better than to be wed. O my father! There is love for Alaran in my heart, but now is there higher love for Christ! I would cleave to Him and wed no man—”
“No,” said Victorinus. “No!”
Now he must show her that women might not always do as they would, but must serve high purposes which others devised. Somewhere in his nature he stood to worship the virgin in her, and strenuously in Gaul and in Italy had he preached virginity in man and in woman. But she must wed the king-to-be of this barbarous people, bring him and them to Christ, give them a prince who from the cradle should be Christian! “O God, who through winding ways bringest all to Thee, give me power to bind her to the horns of Thy altar—”
He made her sit before him, and through a summer afternoon he taught her her duty here. As the sun went down red, he ceased. She stood up, pale, but with eyes that glowed like the eyes of Victorinus. She raised her clasped hands, “O high God, high and most sweet! Hear me swear to Thee, that I will bring Thee Alaran and this Nation!”
Spring touched summer. Terig sat very long one eve beneath Terig Oak, his back to the huge bole, his tankard of mead beside him. Fritha, passing, turned aside to find out his dreaming. She touched his shoulder, then his brow, she looked closely, she laid hands over his heart. Then she cried loudly. “Terig! Terig!—Alaran!”
Terig was dead. All the Goths moaned greatly for him. They came from clearings far away, they filled the dark forest with chants of sorrow. The bards strung the strings of their rude harps, they sang Terig’s might and his glory and the might of dark Death. The priests of the grove played their part. A great pyre was built for Terig, at dusk it was kindled. All night the flames reddened the surrounding wood. Men and women circled the heap with cries and invocations.
Daybreak came, and the flames were gone, and the embers dying to ash. The fighting men raised upon their shields Alaran, son of Terig. They bore him so around Terig Oak. They dashed upon the tree mead and water and called it Alaran Oak. They seated Alaran in Terig’s chair, and for him clashed their shields and shook their spears. Men and women blended their voices in the shouting. Alaran was king of these Goths in Terig’s stead.
Alaran was tall and broad of shoulder, yellow-haired, with yellow hair upon his upper lip, with sky-blue eyes. When the shouting came to an end, he stood, and, spear in hand, promised to be as Terig. One week the folk feasted at Terig Oak.