he ministering spirits that dwell in its beams
descended as a shower of burning gold upon the sea, and, stretching to
the shore, heard us. We exchanged our vows beneath the light of the
hallowed orb, while the stars of heaven hid their faces before it. Then,
Agitha, while its beams glowed on my father's sword, upon that sword I
swore to love thee. But our vows are vain. Daughter of kings! our love
is sorrow. Thy father hath vowed, by the mighty Woden, that thou shalt
be the wife of a king, and that a kingdom shall be the price of thy
hand. Yet will I gather my warriors together. They number a thousand
spears; they have a thousand bows. The charge of their spears is as the
rushing of the whirlwind. The flight of their arrows hides the face of
the sun. Foes perish at their approach. Victory goeth before their face.
Therefore will I go forth into a far country. I will make war upon a
strange people, that I may take the kingdom from their ruler, and
present his crown unto thy father for the hand of my Agitha."

The maiden wept. Her head sank on her bosom like a fair flower weighed
down with dew. Tears stood in the eyes of the warrior.

"Weep not, daughter of heroes!" he said; "the tide of battle is in the
hands of Woden. He will not turn it against a descendant of his race. I
will return to thee in triumph. I will throw a crown at thy father's
feet, and rush to the arms of Agitha. Thou wilt greet me again with thy
smile of love--with thy voice that is sweeter than the music of spring.
Thy heart, which is dearer than life, shall be my kingdom; and thy
bosom, that is whiter than the breast of the wild swan, my throne. I
will fly to thee as the hunted deer to its covert--as a bird to its nest
where its young await it."

Thus departed the warrior, and Agitha returned to her maidens; she sat
down amongst them and mourned.

Gormack, the weird, a thane of the Pictish race, had his dwelling near
the giddy cliffs where the young eagles scream to the roar of the dark
waters of the Forth. He had a daughter whose beauty was the theme of all
tongues. Her fame went over the land like the sound of shells--yea, like
the sound of shells when the wind is hushed, and the moon is bright in
the heavens. Fair was the daughter of Gormack as the lily that groweth
by the brook. Her hair was as the finest fleece when it is purified. It
fell down her back in ringlets. It was bright as the golden clouds that
encircle the throne of the rising sun--a