On the very edge of the forest, beneath a gigantic oak, upon a piece of rising ground, stood a figure upon which he, in common with every one else around him, riveted his eyes with the most intense interest and attention. It was a woman of more than ordinary height, clothed from head to foot in white drapery, her hair failing loosely upon her shoulders, with a simple chaplet of oak-leaves over her forehead. Her features were such as impelled you to look a second time after you had once gazed upon her. Nobility was stamped upon her brow. Courage, truth, and every other virtue which ennobles those of mortal mould were imprinted upon the lineaments of that countenance. Erect she stood, gazing down upon the peasant crowd below; and while her right hand held the sickle with which she had been performing some of the mystic rites of her order, her left arm was far outstretched as she pointed in the direction of that part of the forest in which the mighty Boar had made his home. [Illustration: 040] It {027}was evident to Smith that the sacrifice, whatever it that {028}not one word should escape him; and as all the people seemed animated by the same desire, a solemn and almost awful silence prevailed throughout the whole crowd. Then the Druidess spoke; her words fell clear and shrill upon the ears of her audience like the clarion notes of the trumpet which calls forth hosts to battle, and they pierced at once to the heart of Smith as they rang through the startled air. And thus spoke the Druidess:-- “Men of Britain’s Holy Isle, Spiritless and idle still Rest ye here, and all the while Forest demons work their will? Barren lie your hungry fields, Yielding nought for human food, While your spirit tamely yields To the Tyrant of the Wood. Hear the Future! To the gods While libations Druids pour, Britain’s Oak to ruin nods, Rotten to the very core! Craven spirits fear and hide From the devastating foe. Can the gods be satisfied With a race of cowards? No! What the mighty gods inspire Bertha to her race imparts. Hear ye all! the gods require Stalwart arms and valiant hearts. All the blood of victims slain Never can your country save, Till that country you sustain With the daring of the brave. Yet are ye no craven race; If yourselves ye learn’d to know, Never would ye turn your face From the coming of the foe. Ah! the spirit moves me now, Ancient spirit of the oak; ‘Neath its mighty spell I bow, Hear the words the gods evoke!