"It will win thee the bride thou wouldst never have wedded but for thy
league with William the Norman. Peace with thy questions, peace!"
continued the voice, trembling as with some fearful struggle; "for it
is the demon that forces my words, and they wither my soul to speak
them."

"But one question more remains; shall I live to wear the crown of
England; and if so, when shall I be a king?"

At these words the face of the Prophetess kindled, the fire suddenly
leapt up higher and brighter; again, vivid sparks lighted the runes on
the fragments of bark that were shot from the flame; over these last
the Morthwyrtha bowed her head, and then, lifting it, triumphantly
burst once more into song.

"When the Wolf Month [185], grim and still,
Heaps the snow-mass on the hill;
When, through white air, sharp and bitter,
Mocking sunbeams freeze and glitter;
When the ice-gems, bright and barbed,
Deck the boughs the leaves had garbed
Then the measure shall be meted,
And the circle be completed.
Cerdic's race, the Thor-descended,
In the Monk-king's tomb be ended;
And no Saxon brow but thine
Wear the crown of Woden's line.

Where thou wendest, wend unfearing,