the immortal Woden. His voice, when his ire was kindled,
was like the sound of deep thunder, and his vengeance fleeter than the
lightning. He overthrew princes as reeds, and he swept armies before him
as stubble. His conquests extended from where clouds sleep on the brow
of Cheviot, to where the heights of terrific Snowdon pierce heaven. Men
trembled at his name; for he was as a wolf in the fold, as an eagle
among the lesser birds of heaven.

Now, the wife of Ethelfrith's bosom died; she departed to the place of
spirits--to the company of her fathers. She left behind her a daughter,
Agitha,[L] with the tresses of the raven's wing; and she was beautiful
as sunbeams sparkling from morning dew amongst the flowers of spring.
Her eyes were bright as the falcon's, but with their brightness was
mingled the meekness of the dove's. The breath of sixteen summers had
fanned her cheeks. Her bosom was white as the snow that lay in winter on
the hills, and soft as the plumage of the sea-fowl that soared over the
rocks of her lofty dwelling.

[L] In the old ballad she is called Margaret.

A hundred princes sighed for the hand of the bright-haired Agitha; but
their tales of love had no music for her ear, and they jarred upon her
soul as the sounds of a broken instrument. She bent her ear only to
listen to the song of affection from the lips of the Chylde Wynde--even
to Chylde Wynde of the sharp sword and the unerring bow, who was her own
kinsman, the son of her father's brother. His voice was to her as the
music of water brooks to the weary and fainting traveller--dear as the
shout of triumph to a conquering king. Great was the Chylde Wynde among
the heroes of Bernicia. He had honoured the shield of his father. He had
rendered his sword terrible. Where the battle raged fiercest, there was
his voice heard, there was his sword seen; war-horses and their riders
fell before it--it arrested the fury of the chariots of war. Bards
recorded his deeds in immortal strains, and Agitha sang them in secret.

Yet would not Ethelfrith listen to the prayer of his kinsman, but his
anger was kindled against him. The fierce king loved his daughter, but
he loved dominion more. It was dearer to him than the light of heaven,
than the face of the blessed sun. He waded through blood as water, even
the blood of his victims, to set his feet upon thrones. He said unto
himself--"Agitha is beautiful--she is fairer than her mother was. She is
stately as a pin