the Vala laid her hand on his arm.

"Behold, as the moon rises on the troubled gloaming, so rises the fate
of Harold, as yon brief, human shadow, halting between light and
darkness, passes away to night. Thou art now the first-born of a
House that unites the hopes of the Saxon with the fortunes of the
Dane."

"Thinkest thou," said Harold, with a stern composure, "that I can have
joy and triumph in a brother's exile and woe?"

"Not now, and not yet, will the voice of thy true nature be heard; but
the warmth of the sun brings the thunder, and the glory of fortune
wakes the storm of the soul."

"Kinswoman," said Harold, with a slight curl of his lip, "by me at
least have thy prophecies ever passed as the sough of the air; neither
in horror nor with faith do I think of thy incantations and charms;
and I smile alike at the exorcism of the shaveling and the spells of
the Saga. I have asked thee not to bless mine axe, nor weave my sail.
No runic rhyme is on the sword-blade of Harold. I leave my fortunes
to the chance of mine own cool brain and strong arm. Vala, between
thee and me there is no bond."

The Prophetess smiled loftily.

"And what thinkest thou, O self-dependent! what thinkest thou is the
fate which thy brain and thine arm shall will?"

"The fate they have won already. I see no Beyond. The fate of a man