He next sailed to the Isle of Rugen, where the Wends were still, in the twelfth century, unbaptized pagans, who worshipped Svantavit, the God of Light, in their capital, Arcona, which is situated on a high rock above the waves of the Baltic. Svantavit was a monstrous idol having four heads; but he was consulted as an oracle, and the captain of every merchant ship which made a good voyage was compelled to pay tribute to the priests of his temple. In the hands of this idol was a cornucopia, which in the first month of every year was filled with precious wine; by looking into what remained of it at Yule-tide, the chief-priest could predict peace or war, dearth or plenty for the ensuing year; and this absurd paganism existed in Rugen until the middle of the thirteenth century. Ratzo, King of the Isle, was a famous but aged warrior, who had destroyed the flourishing city of Lubeck in 1134; so to him, and to the chief-priest, the earl appealed, and laid at the foot of their hideous idol in Arcona all the plunder of the Christian churches--chalices of gold, lamps of silver, croziers studded with precious stones, and altar-cloths covered with embroidery. The priest accepted the plunder, ascended a ladder, and peeped into the horn in the hands of the idol, where, as he averred, he could see amid the wine the figure of a little boy, with an earl's coronet on his head, and a sword in each hand. So Morrar na Shean with joy spread his purple sails upon the northern sea, and came home to find that the countess had brought into the world _a third daughter_, whom she named Thora. The earl was ready to expire with passion. "Let us return to Arcona!" said Thorolf Starkadder. "For what purpose, fool?" asked the earl, gruffly. "To destroy the temple of Svantavit, hang the false priest, and burn his idol." "Nay," said Morrar na Shean, grinding his teeth. "I shall take other vengeance upon fate, for fate has conspired against me." "How--how?" asked his followers. "Anon, ye shall hear!" "Shall we not see?" asked Thorolf, grimly, for he was a lover of mischief and cruelty. "No," replied Morrar, briefly, as he gnawed his yellow moustaches in wrath. CHAPTER XLIX. GUILT AND REMORSE OF MORRAR NA SHEAN. One evening, when twilight was closing on the land and sea; when the clouds were gathering in heavy masses that portended a storm, and when the Thurso ran hoarsely and rapidly over its stony bed beneath the castle wall, Harold commanded the countess to assume her hood and cloak, and to accompany him. "Whither?" she asked, timidly, for his manner was strange, and he was sorely flushed with wine. "Whither, matters not; but you shall learn when we reach the place." "Do we go on foot?" she inquired, trembling, for there was a wild glare in his eyes that terrified her. "Yes." "Alone--unattended?" "Yes," he repeated, hoarsely.