Drift and strand thee on the throne.

When the Wolf Month, grim and still,
Piles the snow-mass on the hill,
In the white air sharp and bitter
Shall thy kingly sceptre glitter:
When the ice-gems barb the bough
Shall the jewels clasp thy brow;
Winter-wind, the oak uprending,
With the altar-anthem blending;
Wind shall howl, and mone shall sing,
'Hail to Harold--HAIL THE KING!'"

An exultation that seemed more than human, so intense it was and so
solemn,--thrilled in the voice which thus closed predictions that
seemed signally to belie the more vague and menacing warnings with
which the dreary incantation had commenced. The Morthwyrtha stood
erect and stately, still gazing on the pale blue flame that rose from
the burial stone, still slowly the flame waned and paled, and at last
died with a sudden flicker, leaving the grey tomb standing forth all
weatherworn and desolate, while a wind rose from the north and sighed
through the roofless columns. Then as the light over the grave
expired, Hilda gave a deep sigh, and fell to the ground senseless.

Harold lifted his eyes towards the stars and murmured:

"If it be a sin, as the priests say, to pierce the dark walls which
surround us here, and read the future in the dim world beyond, why
gavest thou, O Heaven, the reason, ever resting, save when it
explores? Why hast thou set in the heart the mystic Law of Desire,