"Here!" cried Siror; and he seized the maiden in his arms, and,
casting her on the rude altar, he drew forth his sword to smite
her to the heart.

Right over the stones rose a giant oak, the growth of immemorial
ages; and from the oak, or from the heavens; broke forth a loud
and solemn voice:

"Strike not, son of kings! the stars forbear their own: the
maiden thou shalt not slay; yet shalt thou reign over the race
of Oestrich; and thou shall give Orna as a bride to the favorite
of the stars. Arise, and go thy way!"

The voice ceased: the terror of Orna had overpowered for a time
the springs of life; and Siror bore her home through the wood in
his strong arms.


"Alas!" said Morven, when, at the next day, he again met the
aspiring prince; "alas! the stars have ordained me a lot which
my heart desires not; for I, lonely of life, and crippled of
shape, am insensible to the fires of love; and ever, as thou and
thy tribe know, I have shunned the eyes of women, for the
maidens laughed at my halting step and my sullen features; and
so in my youth I learned betimes to banish all thoughts of love.
But since they told me (as they declared to _thee_), that only
through that marriage, thou, O beloved prince! canst obtain thy
fatter's plumed crown, I yield me to their will."