The question came sharply, as if a sudden gleam of hope had
flashed through the tangle of the old priest's mind. But
Winfried's voice sank lower and a cloud of disappointment passed
over his face as he replied: "Nay, miracles have I never wrought,
though I have heard of many; but the All-Father has given no power
to my hands save such as belongs to common man."

"Stand still, then, thou common man," said Hunrad, scornfully,
"and behold what the gods have called us hither to do. This night
is the death night of the sun-god, Baldur the Beautiful, beloved
of gods and men. This night is the hour of darkness and the power
of winter, of sacrifice and mighty fear. This night the great
Thor, the god of thunder and war, to whom this oak is sacred, is
grieved for the death of Baldur, and angry with this people
because they have forsaken his worship. Long is it since an
offering has been laid upon his altar, long since the roots of his
holy tree have been fed with blood. Therefore its leaves have
withered before the time, and its boughs are heavy with death.
Therefore the Slavs and the Wends have beaten us in battle.
Therefore the harvests have failed, and the wolf-hordes have
ravaged the folds, and the strength has departed from the bow, and
the wood of the spear has broken, and the wild boar has slain the
huntsman. Therefore the plague has fallen on our dwellings, and
the dead are more than the living in all our villages. Answer me,
ye people, are not these things true?"

A hoarse sound of approval ran through the circle. A chant, in
which the voices of the men and women blended, like the shrill
wind in the pine-trees above the rumbling thunder of a waterfall,