“Almost I believe,” answered Alaran. “But I will not hasten. There is much to think of.”
The days grew long and warm. When the wheat had begun to ripen birth-pangs took Alleda. As a rule barbarian women gave birth easily, but here was some difference. Alleda lay in anguish, and the sun sank and rose again and sank and the babe was not born. Fritha and the wise women wrought, but nothing was of avail. Through and around Alaran Oak a silence held save when Alleda cried out.
“Naught answers. She will die!” said Fritha.
Alaran ran through the moonlighted forest to the lodge of the Christian men. “Victorinus! Victorinus!”
The moonbeams, streaming through the open door and window, flooded the church. Victorinus was kneeling there. “Is she lightened? Is the babe born?”
“You had one with you who healed Terig’s wound—”
“Alas! It was Probus who died in the winter—”
“She will die. They all say it.—Roman! She says that you have a great god. Beg your god to make her live! If she lives I will turn Christian—I and Alaran Oak and all the Goths by the river.” He broke away. Victorinus heard him brush the trees as he went.
All night Victorinus lay before the altar and prayed. “O God, God, this people! Now is the day for them to come. O Lord Jesus, will it not please Thee to draw them to Thee through every forest aisle, to see them around Thy building here like the blades of grass for number? O sweet Jesus! and this little stream that runs hard by for the water of baptism.... And the woman herself, Lord—”
The dawn turned the sky red behind Alaran Oak. In tree and bush the bird began to sing to the bird on the nest. The mist rose like a ghost from the river. Alleda gave a great cry, then lay still.... Voices of women arose, rejoicing.